By Jessica Brody

Nonfiction

Save the Cat! Writes a Novel

Save the Cat! Writes a Young Adult Novel

Page One to Done

Fiction

The System Divine Trilogy

The Geography of Lost Things

The Chaos of Standing Still

Amelia Gray is Almost Okay

I Speak Boy

Better You Than Me

Addie Bell’s Shortcut to Growing Up

The Unremembered Trilogy

In Some Other Life

A Week of Mondays

Boys of Summer

52 Reasons to Hate My Father

My Life Undecided

The Karma Club

The Fidelity Files

Love Under Cover

How to Write a Murder

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Copyright © 2026 by Jessica Brody Entertainment, LLC

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Hardcover ISBN 9798217299478

Ebook ISBN 9798217299485

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To my fellow writers,
who know just how dangerous
a good story can be

It all starts with an idea.

An image crystallizing in the writer’s mind:

A dark forest, tinged with the scent of rain and pine needles. The trees slicing sharp, bladelike shadows across the ground. The distant hoot of an owl who has witnessed something unspeakable.

Then, hidden deep within the woods, a clearing. A large pool. Pockets of steam rising up from the water like curling smoke. Twigs and leaves litter the surface. Remnants of a violent storm that has finally subsided.

That’s where it will be found. Floating face down in the water. Amid the debris of a chaotic night.

A body.

Step 1

“The Intriguing Opening”

Chapter One

“Whenever possible, put your main character in danger on the very first page.”

Darius Walker turned up the volume of his audiobook, hoping the voice of the narrator would drown out the pounding of his heart. He sat in the back seat of the car, bracing himself as his driver approached another hairpin turn along the seemingly endless dirt road.

“Danger helps the reader create an emotional connection to the character. A character in peril is a character worth reading about,” the narrator continued as the Lyft driver—Marco, 4.8 stars—careened around the turn, making no effort to slow down. Darius gripped the backpack on his lap as if it were a life raft, even though the last fleeting glimpses of the Pacific Ocean had vanished in the rearview mirror four turns ago.

The car skated the knife-edge corner. Darius shut his eyes. If there was one thing he liked less than winding dirt roads, it was winding dirt roads through mountainside cliffs that plunged thousands of feet into dark, bottomless abysses.

“Your opening scenes are your opportunity to hook the reader with intrigue and taut pacing, so whatever you do, don’t—”

“Slow down!” Darius shouted, ripping off his headphones. He’d made the mistake of opening his eyes just as the car veered recklessly around another sharp turn. The driver slammed on the brakes, sending pebbles cascading over the cliff edge. Darius was certain they were going to follow right after, straight into the gaping chasm below. That would make a terrible start to a novel.

Or an intriguing one…

The car evened out and Darius slid his headphones back on, letting the words of The Bestseller Formula soothe his frayed nerves. It was currently the number-one mystery-writing guide on the market, probably because of its simplicity. The author, Jenna Blake, claimed all mystery novels follow the same twelve-step pattern, so naturally, if you followed it too, you’d write a bestseller.

“In Step 1 you introduce all your main characters, including the victim and the killer,” the narrator proclaimed with an overly dramatic flair. As if the rules of mystery writing were as grave and consequence-laden as the rules of open-heart surgery. One wrong cut, one misplaced scene, and your book will flatline with no hope of resuscitation. But that was why Darius loved writing guides. They brought order to a chaotic process, a chaotic world.

The car slowed as it approached a narrow one-lane bridge that looked like it was built decades before the invention of the car. Even Darius’s Formula One driver hesitated, hands tightening on the wheel before he inched onto the groaning wooden planks. Darius’s smartwatch erupted in high-pitched beeps as his heart rate skyrocketed.

“This step is also where you should introduce the primary setting of the novel,” the narrator crooned into his ear. “The more remote or ominous the location, the higher the stakes—”

“This place sure is far,” Marco said, glancing at Darius in the rearview mirror as they miraculously made it across the bridge. “Where are you heading, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m going to a mystery writers’ conference,” said Darius, pausing the audiobook and sliding off his headphones. It’s not like he didn’t have the whole book memorized anyway.

“Oh yeah? That sounds fun. So, you’re a writer?”

Darius froze, completely caught off guard, although he wasn’t sure why. It was an honest question. He just didn’t have an honest answer. He should have rehearsed something. “Um—”

“Whoa! Is that where the conference is?” The car lurched to a halt as Marco peered up at the building now visible through the low clouds hugging the top of the mountain.

Darius inhaled sharply and searched for the perfect words to describe the looming structure.

Majestically regal?

No, too pretentious.

Formidable and ominous with an understated beauty.

Good enough for now. Descriptions had never been his strong suit.

“Looks like an old church or something,” said Marco.

“Renovated Catholic monastery, actually.” Darius angled himself to get a better view of the two stately bell towers that shot up into the sky like heavenly silos.

“Well, I hope for your sake the conference is inside,” said Marco, craning his neck to peer through the top of the windshield. “It looks like it’s going to rain.”

Just then, the sky split apart, unleashing a torrent of water onto the windows and, to Darius’s horror, the winding dirt driveway ahead of them. Despite the dread filling his stomach, Darius couldn’t help but think that this was actually the perfect opening to a good mystery novel. All that was missing was the ominous crack of thunder.

An ominous crack of thunder shook the windows of the economy-size rental car. Isabel Torres tightened her white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as she struggled to make out the rapidly vanishing road through the rain-splattered windshield. Either this glorified go-kart had shitty wipers or the rain was coming down faster than they could keep up.

And now her frantic breaths were fogging up the glass.

She slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop in the middle of the mountain’s curvy unpaved road. Why the hell did she think she could do this? Had she learned nothing in the past three months? Isabel had made plenty of poor choices in her twenty-two years—and she had the scar on her forehead to prove it—but this one somehow seemed worst of all.

The rain picked up, pounding against every surface of the car. How could droplets of water sound so much like gunshots?

“Get it together!” she scolded herself through gritted teeth. “It’s just a little rain.”

She turned the defogger up full blast and eased her foot off the brake. The car inched forward, tires scraping against the wet dirt, fighting for purchase. She attempted the calming technique she’d read about online. Breathe in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. It didn’t work.

At least if I die on this road, the angry fan mail will stop.

That was a silver lining, she supposed. You can’t blame an author for not finishing the last book in her series if she’s dead. The morbid thought made her laugh. Quite maniacally, in fact. She’d been doing that far too much lately. Cackling to herself like an old hag. Even in public. It unnerved people. It unnerved her.

“Cut it out,” she said aloud. She often talked to herself aloud. It was a writer thing.

The rain started to subside, giving the wipers a chance to catch up. It was easier to see the road now and the imposing structure shimmering into view in the distance. As always, the words to describe what she saw crystallized effortlessly in her mind, as if she were typing them onto the page.

The Monastery of the Shrouded Vale was a twisted tapestry of moss-covered stone and yawning archways, its two brooding bell towers dissolving into the mist like ghosts fading behind the veil.

Descriptions were her favorite thing to write.

But sadly, you needed more than descriptions to finish a book.

Fueled by the sight of her destination, Isabel sped up, maneuvering the car recklessly around the next sharp turn.

Cuidado. Her mother’s voice slipped into her mind, growing fainter each day despite how hard she tried to cling on to it. Bad decisions are what make bad people, mija.

Isabel slowed. The road straightened out and she felt her grip on the steering wheel loosen, just before a dark figure darted across the road, right into the path of her car.

She screamed. Both feet slammed on the brakes. Her hands yanked hard on the steering wheel. The car spun. She prayed it was spinning toward the mountainside and not toward the cliff, but it was impossible to tell.

She felt the impact. Heard the crunch. The car stopped spinning and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Not again. Not again! Something was dead. She was sure of it.

The first thing you need to know about writing a murder is that you must stay in control of the narrative at all times. The characters will try to fool you into thinking they’re calling the shots. They’re not. Never forget whose story this really is. Who’s helming the ship. Who’s hiding behind the curtain, pulling all the strings, doing all the work.

That would be me, by the way.

I am the mastermind behind everything that’s about to happen. I researched it and planned it and spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over it. I forged it in the crucible of my own pain and regret and imagination.

This is my pièce de résistance. My perfect murder. And it’s just beginning.

Some say the perfect murder doesn’t exist. I say these people have never met a writer. Writers know how much effort it takes to craft a plot that works. You have to plan every detail, anticipate every twist and turn, set up every payoff, and strike just the right balance of real clues and red herrings.

And I’ve done that.

I’ve plotted and replotted this murder. I’ve outlined and reoutlined. (I’ve had a lot of time to work on this.) Everything is ready. The timeline of events is set. My plan is already in motion. Nothing can or will go wrong. I’m sure of it.

Because if anyone can get away with murder, it’s a writer.

Chapter Two

“So, what do you do at a writers’ conference? Sit around and write all day?”

Darius smiled politely at the Lyft driver’s question as they started the slow trek up the monastery’s twisting driveway. “Not exactly. You attend workshops, listen to speakers, exchange feedback with other writers.” He was quoting directly from the website because truthfully, he had no idea what you did at a writers’ conference. He’d never attended one. Especially not one as prestigious and exclusive as Pen Ultimate Writers. He still wasn’t entirely sure why he was here. His invitation hadn’t come from the standard selection committee, and the language of the email was vague at best.

I’ll be speaking at a mystery writers’ conference in California next weekend. Will you join as my guest? I will, of course, pay all your expenses. I could really use your help…

Help with what, Darius had no idea, and the question had kept him awake for nights.

“That sounds cool,” said Marco. “Any famous writers gonna be there?”

Darius fidgeted in his seat. “Um, actually, yes. The keynote speaker is Ian McCloud.”

Marco tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel as he inched the car up the narrow driveway. “Hmm. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Then you clearly don’t read the same news sites I do, thought Darius. The scandal was all over the publishing industry. McCloud fires his agent of thirty years! Accuses him of stealing two million!

“You’ve probably seen one of the movies based on his books,” Darius said. “Burning the Bones, Serial Intent, Remains of the Dark.” He listed out some of McCloud’s well-known titles. “And of course, Season of Dying Violets, which is his most popular.”

Marco’s eyes flashed in the rearview. “With that police detective? What’s his name?”

“Marlow Griggs.”

“Detective Griggs!” Marco snapped his fingers and deepened his voice in an impression of the gritty New York gumshoe. “ ‘No crime was ever solved playing by the rules.’ ”

“That’s the one.” Darius forced a smile even though the catchphrase grated on him. It wasn’t in the books. Hollywood added it to make the detective edgier and more rebellious. But the thing that made Marlow Griggs such a clever character was that he did play by the rules. He’d been solving crimes for so long, he knew how to work the system from within the system. It was the result of brilliant, nuanced writing, but he supposed it was harder to show that kind of nuance on-screen.

“Damn, I love those movies,” said Marco. “No shit? He’s gonna be there?”

“Well, not Marlow Griggs,” Darius clarified, just in case. It was shocking how many fans failed to recognize the difference. “But the author will be there.”

“That’s awesome! I didn’t even know those movies were based on books.”

Darius winced on behalf of McCloud. “Yup. All based on books.”

“Will you get to meet him?”

“Um, I think so.” Darius swallowed against the lump in his throat. He thought again of the mysterious invite sitting in his inbox, and his smartwatch erupted in another chorus of frantic beeps.

…I’m afraid I can’t divulge any more information right now, especially over email. I trust you. It’s others I’m wary about. I hope you’ll say yes.

Your friend,

Ian McCloud

Fuck Ian McCloud.

Bennett Hartley dragged the heavy hard-sided suitcase up the steep exterior staircase leading to the monastery’s front entrance, rain pelting his back with every step. With a grunt, he dropped it alongside the other luggage crowded on the stone landing.

And fuck this conference.

He paused under the arched overhang, the only refuge from the relentless downpour, and wiped rain and sweat from his brow before descending the steps again. The remaining bags lay strewn about the base of the stairs like corpses after a killing spree. He heaved a giant duffel onto one shoulder and a garment bag onto the other before starting the trek up again, cursing the rain and his driver for not helping with the bags in the same breath.

Bennett wasn’t even supposed to be at this conference. He was supposed to be sitting in his apartment in Manhattan, obsessively refreshing his inbox and chain-smoking a pack of cigarettes down to the stubs. But then Ian McCloud had to go and fire his agent and everything went to hell.

“I can’t be left alone right now, Bennett,” McCloud had whined into the phone last night at one a.m., drunk and ranting about the bastard who stole two million dollars from him. “I need you there with me. I don’t know what I’ll do if left to my own devices.”

The next thing Bennett knew, he was wedged into a middle seat in coach on the fucking five a.m. flight to SFO. Thirty-nine was far too old to be flying coach. He hadn’t even been able to write on the six-hour flight because his laptop was still in the shop. But if Bennett had learned anything over the past ten years of being the famous crime writer’s assistant, it’s that you just don’t say no to Ian McCloud. The word seemed to be absent from the man’s vocabulary, which was ironic for a bestselling author who wrote close to three hundred thousand words a year.

Bennett dropped the bags at the top of the stairs. He pulled out his pocket-size leather notebook and his favorite pen, with ink the color of dark mulberry wine, and wrote:

Ian McCloud: A titan of the written word, yet beneath the grandeur, an emotional infant. Betrayal reduces him to dust—his ego a brittle glass tower, crumbling in the faintest breeze.

Bennett checked his phone. Still no service. And no sign of Wi-Fi either. No Wi-Fi at a writers’ conference? What did they expect these desperate wannabes to do all day? Write?

Descending the stairs again, Bennett blinked rain from his eyes and took inventory of the remaining bags. All McCloud’s, of course, as evident from the custom luggage tags bearing his distinctive I.M. logo. The I was fashioned into a fountain pen with a dagger-sharp nib dripping red ink into a pool of blood. Ian liked to joke with bellhops that he had dead bodies stashed in his luggage. “A little crime writer humor,” he’d say with a wink. To which they’d all laugh like chumps as they pocketed their tips. But apparently, this place didn’t have bellhops. So the job of bag boy was left to Bennett.

His only consolation was knowing that McCloud was stuck in this downpour on a motorcycle. Despite the weather predictions, he’d insisted Bennett rent one for him at the airport so he could fulfill his “lifelong dream of driving up California 101 on a hog.”

Fucking idiot.

Bennett slung a laptop bag across his chest, crisscrossed it with the strap of the cooler packed with McCloud’s protein bars, and picked up another suitcase before struggling back up the steps. There were no actual dead bodies in McCloud’s luggage. The man was simply high-maintenance as shit.

As for what was in his closet, that was another story. But Bennett knew you didn’t get to be as rich and successful as Ian McCloud without having to stash away a few skeletons.

“Hi, there! Are you here for the conference? Well, obviously. Why else would you be out here in this weather, right?” A lanky, bespectacled young man with close-cropped dark hair bounded up the steps clutching a backpack and small carry-on and squeezed in next to Bennett under the awning. One of the desperate wannabes, no doubt. He certainly dressed the part, in pressed slacks and a sports coat with actual fucking elbow patches. “Wow, that’s a lot of luggage. What do you have in there? Dead bodies? Just kidding. Do you need some help?”

“I’ve got it.” Bennett dropped the suitcase on the landing and unraveled himself from the tangle of bags.

Elbow Patches jutted out his hand like a politician. “I’m Darius Walker.”

“I know who you are.” Bennett gave his hand a perfunctory shake. “On McCloud Nine? The YouTube channel?”

“You’re a subscriber?” Darius looked delighted. “That’s awesome, man. Thank you!”

Bennett didn’t bother correcting him. Keeping tabs on fan sites and channels like Darius Walker’s was part of his job. The line between fan and stalker was narrow, indeed. Bennett couldn’t count the number of times he’d been summoned to deal with a “fan” who turned up at McCloud’s house in the middle of the night. Some even liked to dress up as the murder victims in his most popular book. As if that weren’t morbid as hell.

“The channel is a ton of work.” Darius was droning on. “But it’s a labor of love for sure. McCloud is such a master at weaving together plot and character complexity…”

The anxious fanboy: drowning past trauma in an endless torrent of words, his insecurities laid bare for all to see, as fragile as the paper-thin armor he crafts around his wounded soul.

“Ooh, a journal? Nice. So, you’re one of those serious writers, huh?”

“It’s not a journal.” Bennett pocketed his journal. “It’s a narrative folio.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” Bennett withdrew his phone again and held his breath as he toggled airplane mode on and off.

“Oh, you won’t get any service here. It’s a distraction-free writing conference.” As proof, Darius whipped out his own device and pointed to the No Service sign at the top of the screen.

Bennett’s stomach dropped. “A what?”

“Didn’t you read the website? No cell service, no Wi-Fi, no distractions. Just inspiration.”

Fuck.

“Do you need help?” Darius asked again, following Bennett back down the steps. He didn’t wait for a response before scooping up the garment bag with McCloud’s dress shirts and unceremoniously tucking it under his arm. Bennett cringed. Now he’d have to iron them again.

“You look familiar,” said Darius. “Have we met? Have I read something you’ve written?”

“Doubtful.” Bennett picked up the last two suitcases and started back up the steps.

“I remember now!” Darius snapped his fingers. “You flapped my book.”

“Excuse me?”

“On the Remains of the Dark tour at the Tattered Cover in Denver. You were marking pages for Ian McCloud to sign.” His face fell. “Never got to meet him, though. He got sick and left early.”

“Ah. Right.” Bennett was used to going along with his boss’s lies. McCloud definitely hadn’t been sick that night.

“So, do you work for the bookstore or something?”

They reached the top of the steps and Bennett set down the last two suitcases with a grunt. “No, I’m Ian McCloud’s personal assistant.”

“His assistant?” Darius dropped the garment bag and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Wow! Really? That’s like the dream job! Is it completely amazing?”

Bennett only nodded, afraid if he spoke he might break at least three clauses of his confidentiality agreement.

“Do you ever get to sit in on his writing sessions or help him brainstorm or—”

Just then, a massive gust of wind whipped across the landing, sending the small hard-sided suitcase tumbling over the edge. Bennett watched in horror as the latch busted open, spilling McCloud’s underwear, toiletries, and precious thousand-dollar skin care regimen across the steps.

“Fuck!” Bennett darted back into the deluge, scooping up rolling bottles of night cream and moisturizer as he went.

“I’ve got it!” Darius called as he chased after the tumbling toiletry bag, which obviously hadn’t been closed all the way because it was vomiting McCloud’s personal effects all along its path.

“Just leave it!” Bennett shouted as he stuffed muddied boxer shorts under his arm. He could only imagine the clickbait YouTube video that would result from this fiasco.

But apparently, Darius didn’t hear him. He knelt to stuff items back into the toiletry bag, and a wave of panic surged through Bennett as Darius reached for an orange prescription bottle that was teetering precariously on the edge of a step.

Bennett launched to his feet. “I said leave it!”

The roar was nearly drowned out by a crack of thunder, but Darius got the message. He dropped the bottle and scurried away, muttering an apology.

“It’s fine,” Bennett said before snatching up the bottle and stuffing it into the bag. He took a breath, knowing he had to say something. “It’s just that Ian McCloud is very private about his stuff.”

Isabel had no idea how long she sat in the driver’s seat of her rental car, unable to move, unable to look at what she’d hit. The seatbelt was digging painfully into her flesh. She struggled to unbuckle it, accidentally catching a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror—

She gasped and looked away, desperately pawing at her face to wipe away the blood. But it was just a trickle from the corner of her mouth. She must have bitten her tongue during the impact.

Suddenly, the car door opened. Isabel screamed as gravity pulled her to the ground. She hadn’t realized the car was tilted at such a sharp angle until she fell out of it. She waited to feel the hard, muddy road meet her shoulder, but instead she was cushioned by a pair of strong arms.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” The deep male voice was vaguely familiar, muffled by the rain pummeling her face and running into her eyes.

“I hit someone.” A cold numbness spread through her body, choking her words. “They just darted into the…I couldn’t see…the rain…the road…”

“Relax,” said the voice as those strong arms helped her to her feet. “It was just a cat. It got away. You didn’t hit it. You swerved just in time and saved it.” He clicked his tongue. “But I’m afraid I can’t say the same for your car.”

Isabel spun toward the rental, which was half buried in the mountainside, the hood completely smashed in.

“And it looks like you might have hit your head.”

Panicked, her hand rushed to her forehead, expecting to feel wet stickiness seep through her fingers again. But it was just the rain. It had pushed aside her newly cut bangs, exposing her scar. She brushed the hair back down. “That’s…um…that was already there.”

“Intriguing.” The man laughed, a deep gravelly sound. “Maybe you can tell me about it over a drink.”

Isabel froze, a shiver passing through her. She now knew why the voice was familiar.

Slowly, she wiped the water from her eyes, knowing exactly what she would see when her vision focused. The gentle green eyes that stared out from the jacket flap of more than thirty bestsellers. The strong build and chiseled jaw that graced the cover of magazines. He was wearing a helmet in lieu of his signature panama hat, but he was still instantly recognizable. She warned herself not to react or betray a single hint of recognition. Even though inside, her mind was screaming.

“Can I give you a ride?” asked Ian McCloud.

It’s always an exciting moment when your characters first begin to interact. Like the start of a carefully choreographed dance.

When writing a murder, nothing should happen by accident. Everything should be by design. But there’s a trick to making people do what you want. You have to know them better than they know themselves. Any good writer will tell you this. If you don’t know your characters well enough, they will turn on you.

But I have dug into these people’s pasts and their psyches. I have excavated their darkest fears, deepest wounds, and innermost desires. I know exactly how they will react to every event. I know what they will do (and what they won’t do). I also know what they’re hiding.

Be warned. Everyone here has secrets. That’s why they’re here.

Characters with no secrets make for very boring stories, indeed.

Chapter Three

Lightning streaked through the windows of the monastery’s vast foyer, casting monstrous silhouettes across the marble floors. Jade Brooks froze in the middle of the room with a stack of welcome packets in her arms, waiting for the accompanying crash of thunder. But all was silent.

Maybe the storm is on its way out, she thought, just before the silence was shattered by a bone-rattling crack that shook the walls, causing one of the wooden frames to swing precariously on its hook.

“Very few of us are what we seem.”

—Agatha Christie

The framed quotes hung all over the monastery in lieu of traditional art. The decorators had taken a very liberal interpretation of the theme “renovated Catholic monastery,” starting with the enormous Tibetan gong positioned on a platform in the corner of the foyer. Yet, beneath the eclectic embellishments, the entry hall retained its original majestic structure, reminiscent of a medieval cathedral. Gothic stone arches flanked the room, sweeping up to high vaulted ceilings, while in the center, a grand bifurcated staircase curved upward, its stone steps draped with a carpet of crimson and gold.

Hurry. The guests will be here any minute.

She picked up her pace, rushing to straighten the crooked frame before darting to the long banquet table at the base of the stairs, where she set the bundle of folders next to a neatly arranged row of monogrammed fountain pens.

She’d arrived at the monastery only this morning to find that nothing was ready. The name tags and welcome packets hadn’t been printed, the dining room tables hadn’t been set, the hot springs pool hadn’t been cleaned, she was missing most of her staff due to weather delays, and there were still wine bottles scattered everywhere from last weekend’s romance writers’ conference. It was her first day as conference facilitator and already she was regretting taking the job.

Jade fanned out the welcome packets in a perfect arc before turning to the grid of name tag lanyards laid out nearby. As she realigned their edges, making sure each one was equidistant from the next, her gaze flittered across the names, trying to commit them to memory.

The official guest list for the weekend consisted of twenty authors and five—no, strike that, four—guest speakers. There had been a last-minute change to the lineup. The famous literary agent Alastair Sinclair had been “respectfully disinvited,” according to the man who’d called Jade from the head office less than an hour ago. Bennett Hartley would be taking his room.

Jade quickly scanned the table, recounting the name tags and folders. She froze.

Shit.

She was missing a welcome packet.

Clenching her fists, she disappeared down one of the many hallways that branched off the foyer like dark passageways in a hedge maze. She didn’t have time for this. There was so much left to do. Weaving through the dining room and kitchen, she found her way to the back service hallways—dimly lit twisting corridors with peeling paint and exposed pipes that hissed scathing accusations as she passed.

She entered the back office and switched on the overhead fluorescent lights, but they did little to brighten the small room, and the storm was causing them to flicker. She opened the laptop on the desk and typed in the password from her facilitator binder. While the document printed, she yanked open the desk drawer and rifled through a jumble of monogrammed fountain pens, spare flash drives, and tangled paper clips until she located an extra folder. She walked over to the archaic printer in the corner, watching it slowly spit out the pages: conference schedule, maps of the monastery’s four floors and grounds, and a historical summary of the building.

…once a place of isolation for devout Catholic monks, the Monastery of the Shrouded Vale was modeled after the medieval monasteries of Europe, famous for their mazelike corridors and traditional cloistered courtyards…

…but after a man was crushed to death in a collapse of the south bell tower staircase, the monastery was forced to close permanently and fell into disrepair. Thanks to a generous private donation, Pen Ultimate Writers was able to purchase the property and transform the building into a luxury hotel for writing conferences…

Jade shivered. The tragic death was an odd detail to include in a welcome packet, but it wasn’t her job to question it. It was just her job to get it into the damn folder.

She grabbed the pages from the printer tray and meticulously squared the corners. She was just sliding them into the packet when someone snuck up from behind and leaned over her shoulder. “There’s a typo.”

Jade jumped and spun, clutching her pounding heart. “Jesus! Are you trying to kill me?”

Jasmine laughed as she sat down in the desk chair and gave it a twirl, sending her black hair spinning around her face like a dark halo. “You’re just too easy to scare, Jadey. You need to stop being so jumpy.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. Jade was used to her sister’s antics, but now was not the time. She pushed her tortoiseshell glasses higher on her nose and refocused on the pages in her hand. “Is there really a typo?”

“Saturday, seventh line.”

Jade’s eyes widened. “That’s not a typo! It’s a disaster!”

Jasmine shrugged. “You’ve always been better at the writer lingo.”

“Shit!” Jade swore as she glared at the erroneous detail on tomorrow’s schedule.

7:00 p.m. Dinner and conversation with literary agent Alastair Sinclair

“The schedule hasn’t been updated since the last-minute speaker change,” she whispered under her breath. “There’s no time to reprint them all!”

“Relax,” Jasmine said, rising from the chair to peer at the page. “No one will notice.”

Jade felt her blood pressure rising. “Everyone will notice!”

“Jadey.” Her sister’s hands were on her shoulders now. Slender fingers that pressed into her skin. “Calm down.”

Jade closed her eyes. “I never should have let you talk me into this. This was a mistake. I can’t do this. I can’t—”

“Yes, you can!” Jasmine spun her around to face her. “You have to. I would do it myself, but we both know why it has to be you.”

Jade took a deep breath. Of course she knew. It was all she could think about. She glanced at the open packet in her hand, a chill running through her as her gaze found the second item of tomorrow’s agenda. The most important item.

10:00 a.m. Keynote speech by Ian McCloud

“I have a bad feeling about this,” she whispered.

“Don’t back out on me now, Jadey.” Jasmine fixed her with a dark gaze. “I’m counting on you. If the roles were reversed, you know I would do it for you…” Her voice trailed off, leaving the uncomfortable truth unspoken. They both knew the roles would never be reversed. This was just how their relationship had always worked—as sisters and as co-authors. Jasmine came up with the ideas and Jade wrote them. Jasmine was the visionary and Jade the executor.

But that was different. That was fiction. This was real life.

“And no matter what,” Jasmine added sharply, her fingers digging into Jade’s shoulders, “you can’t tell anyone that I’m here. It’ll ruin everything. You know that, right?”

Jade twisted out of her grip. “Of course I know that. I’m not stupid.”

Jasmine’s expression flickered with doubt before she turned away. “Okay.”

With a slow exhale, Jade closed the folder and clutched it to her chest, dread still gnawing at her. At least she didn’t have to do this alone. The whole thing was Jasmine’s idea anyway. Jade had been skeptical at first—okay, skeptical was putting it mildly—but Jasmine had a way of winning Jade over to even her most harebrained schemes.

Jade started for the door but paused to glance back at her sister, who was poking through cabinets like a mischievous child.

“I won’t tell anyone you’re here,” Jade said in a stern voice, “if you promise to behave and stick to the plan.”

“I will,” Jasmine said breezily, refusing to meet her eye as she pulled out a file drawer.

Why didn’t Jade believe her?

She strode back into the foyer just as another crack of thunder rattled the chandeliers. They flickered ominously and Jade sucked in a breath. The lights held. With a sigh of relief, she placed the new packet on the table.

The storm shouldn’t have come as a surprise. All the weather apps had predicted it to last all weekend. Jasmine thought it was romantic. Disruptive was the word that came to Jade’s mind.

CLANG!

Jade yelped and clutched her chest like she’d been shot. She spun toward the large gong, which was still vibrating, and the woman in the crisp white cleaner’s uniform holding the mallet. The sound was supposed to be soothing, a gentle reminder that the next event was about to begin. Jade would have to work on her reaction to that thing. She couldn’t be having a near heart attack in front of the guests every time it was struck.

“I am sorry to frighten you,” the housekeeper said in a hard-to-place European accent.

Jade swallowed. “That’s all right…” She glanced at the woman’s name tag. “Marjorie.”

She still had to memorize the staff names. They’d hopefully be arriving on the employee shuttle any minute. Five more housekeepers and three waitstaff. Plus, there was a chef—Melissa, she remembered—who had gone into town with her assistant—something with a K—on a grocery run.

“It’s three o’clock. Guest arrival time,” Marjorie announced, causing Jade’s stomach to clench. There was still so much to do!

“I can help you with something?” Marjorie asked, as if reading the dread on Jade’s face. The head housekeeper had dark hair cut to the shoulders and a slender—almost bony—frame. She seemed to tower over Jade, but Jade couldn’t tell if it was because she was really that much taller or she just carried herself so stiffly that it gave the illusion of height.

“Um, let me see.” Jade flipped open the heavy black binder that had been waiting for her in lieu of actual on-the-job training and grimaced at the sight of all the unticked boxes on her checklist. “Okay, I still need to set the dining room tables, clean the hot springs, set up the lounge for the welcome reception—can you handle that, maybe?” Jade felt strange giving orders to a woman who was probably twice her age, but if she couldn’t convince the staff she belonged here, how would she ever convince the guests?

“Yes. I will do this,” said Marjorie, turning to leave.

“Oh, and one of the guests arrived early and needs her materials.” From the table, Jade plucked up a folder and the name tag for Simone Prescott. The woman had been shut up in her room without a sound since she arrived. Hopefully she was still alive in there. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate foil of their plans? A dead body before the conference even began? “Can you see if she’s taken down her Do Not Disturb sign yet? She’s in room 221.”

“Of course.” Items in hand, Marjorie disappeared up the stairs, leaving Jade alone in the foyer. An icy draft blew through the room, and Jade noticed another frame knocked askew by the deepening storm.

“Never make it easy on your characters. Everything must be a struggle.”

—Felicity Gray

Jade shivered. All the quotes gave her an unsettled feeling, probably because they reminded her too much of her own abandoned writing career. But this one felt more personal and prophetic, like a disturbingly appropriate fortune cookie. As the facilitator, it was Jade’s job to make things go smoothly. Facilitate, from the Latin root facilis, meaning “easy to do.” But so far, nothing about this new job had been easy.

Outside, muffled footsteps could be heard coming up the front steps. No backing out now.

Jade straightened the frame before walking toward the monastery’s imposing front doors, two ancient oak panels adorned with iron bolts that gave the illusion of a dungeon entrance. As she went, she caught sight of a woman walking beside her. Startled, she let out a small yelp, only to realize it was her own reflection in a mirror on the wall.

She’d have to work on that reaction too.

But it was impossible for that woman to feel familiar. Too many details had changed. The blond dye disguising her raven-black hair, now cut into a chic bob; the ice-blue contacts and dramatic black liner used to change the color and shape of her eyes; the large tortoiseshell glasses that promised to make her look older, less recognizable. So far, it was all working.

“If you can fool yourself, you can certainly fool everyone else,” Jasmine had said when Jade first tried on the disguise.

Jade smoothed her hair down over her ears, pulled her charcoal blazer taut, and adjusted her glasses. Showtime.

She curled her lips into a practiced smile before opening the door to greet her guests. “Welcome to Pen Ultimate Writers’ Mystery Week!”

The woman at the door: a hollow facsimile of life, as inanimate as a department-store mannequin. Her eyes void of depth and her movements stiff and mechanical, as if some unseen puppeteer pulled her strings.

“Please come in and get dry.” She greeted Bennett and Darius with an artificial smile. “Don’t worry about the luggage. I’ll have it delivered to your rooms.”

Bennett didn’t need to be told twice. He pocketed his notebook and purple pen and stepped over the heap of bags into the foyer, his loafers squeaking on the polished marble floors.

“Wow!” said Darius, ogling the vast room. “What a setting!”

Bennett took a cursory glance around. Admittedly, it was impressive, probably even more so when sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. But now the glass was streaked with rain, casting eerie dappled shadows across the stone statues of angels and cherubs, making them look almost as irritated as Bennett felt.

“I need access to a Wi-Fi network.” Bennett cut off the woman who was in the middle of introducing herself as Jade Brooks, the conference facilitator.

Her bright smile collapsed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought all the guests were already informed. This is a distraction-free writing conference. There is no Wi-Fi.”

“Yes, but I’m not a guest. I’m Ian McCloud’s assistant.” He emphasized the name with practiced significance. It usually worked.

“Right! Bennett Hartley. Our last-minute addition. The head office told me you’d be coming in place of…” Her voice trailed off, and she cleared her throat before opening a thick black binder and ticking something off on the page. “Welcome! We’re so pleased to have you.”

“This is amazing!” Darius had wandered under one of the archways, his head tipped back like a tourist admiring the Sistine Chapel. “The ceilings are so high!”

“Soooo.” Bennett dragged out the word, but the woman didn’t get the hint. “I understand the guests aren’t supposed to have access to the internet, but there must be a network for the staff.”

Her smile collapsed again. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Hartley. There is no Wi-Fi here at all. We’re much too far up the mountain.”

Bennett felt his chest constricting. “A phone, then? There must be phones in the rooms?”

Jade brightened. “Yes, there are! But they’re just housephones. We do have an outside line in the back office. I’d be happy to let you use it. Let me just get your materials for the week.”

“This antique typewriter is so cool!” Darius called out from a small seating area where he was playfully pecking at the keys of a bulky metal contraption.

Bennett followed the woman across the large foyer to a table at the base of the staircase, where she scooped up two laminated badges on lanyards and two folders.

“Here you go, Mr. Hartley. You are in room 308 on the third floor and Mr. McCloud is in room 307, just across the hall.”

“Across the hall?” Bennett asked, surprised. “Not adjoining?”

Alarm flashed across her face. “We don’t have any adjoining rooms. Is that a problem?”

He hastily shook his head. “No. Not a problem.”

“Excellent. Both rooms are in the south wing. If you don’t want to take the stairs, there’s an elevator just through there.” Jade pointed to one of the many dark hallways branching off from the foyer. “All the information you need for the conference is in your packet. The room keys are inside the rooms. We leave them unlocked until the guests arrive.”

Bennett flipped open the folder and scanned the schedule to commit it to memory. God knows McCloud wouldn’t even glance at it. It would, of course, be Bennett’s responsibility to get him where he needed to be on time and relatively sober.

“Look at all these framed quotes on the wall!” Darius chirped from one of the alcoves. “They’re like little nuggets of inspiration. ‘Fiction is not an escape from reality, but a lens through which we can view it more clearly. Marcus Lockhart.’ Huh. Never heard of him.”

Bennett was barely listening. He was fixated on the schedule, his blood slowly turning to ice. “What the fuck is this?”

Jade flinched, looking like she’d been slapped. He pulled the printed sheet from the folder and waved it in her face. “This says that Alastair Sinclair is scheduled to speak at tomorrow’s dinner. Have you not heard the news? I suppose with no Wi-Fi, it’s likely.”

Jade took a deep breath, like she was about to give a rehearsed speech. “My sincere apologies for that, Mr. Hartley. Yes, we are aware of the recent headlines. And no, Mr. Sinclair is not coming. The head office called him and explained the situation, but unfortunately we weren’t able to reprint all the schedules before the start of the conference.”

Relief flooded through Bennett like a shot of vodka, which he could definitely use right now.

“So, he’s been disinvited?” Darius appeared from the archway, looking like an old-timey news reporter about to flip open his steno pad to record a hot tip. “Does that mean Pen Ultimate Writers is officially siding with Ian McCloud over his agent?”

Jade stepped back, her face visibly changing colors. “I…uh…I’m afraid I can’t comment on behalf of the company. I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“Darius Walker.” He jutted out his hand. The kid really liked to shake hands.

“Here we are.” Jade plucked his lanyard from the array on the table.

“Are these all the guests?” Darius studied the name tags as he slipped on his own. “Huh. I don’t know any of these people.”

“No?” Jade tilted her head. “I was told they’re all experienced mystery writers. The conference is invite only, as you know. I don’t think a lot of beginners make the cut.”

“Oh! She sounds familiar.” Darius picked up a lanyard. “Isabel Torres. Why do I know that name?”

“I’m sorry,” Bennett said sharply. “But are you going to let me use the phone or not?”

“Of course. My apologies again, Mr. Hartley!” Jade shook her head like she was trying to wake from a dream. “It’s right through here.”

Bennett followed her toward one of the hallways, jotting in his notebook as he went.

The conference “facilitator”: more scattered than the very writers she’s meant to corral. A fascinating spectacle of incompetence and—

His pen froze on the page as the front doors flung open and a man in a wet, crumpled suit stumbled in from the rain, his silver-streaked hair plastered to his forehead like a helmet.

“No porters? No help up the stairs? Not even someone waiting with a bloody brolly? What kind of a five-star accommodation is this?” The man mopped his forehead with a handkerchief but stopped the moment he saw Bennett. Despite the spaciousness of the foyer, Bennett felt like all the air in the room had been sucked out. This day had just gone from shitty to cataclysmic.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” the newcomer asked no one in particular.

Bennett cut a glance at Jade, his teeth gritting. “I thought you said he was disinvited.”

Jade’s blue eyes widened in panic. “Mr. Sinclair? Um…I was told…we weren’t expecting you.”

Ah, my special guest has arrived. Right on time. When writing a murder, you want to include at least one person no one is expecting, preferably someone no one likes. And Alastair Sinclair has enemies to spare. Which means he adds conflict and tension to the unfolding plot—always a good thing. But most important, he’s a crucial component of my plan.

They all are. Everyone here was chosen for a reason. My endgame is complicated and I need all of them to pull it off.

Plotting a murder is no simple matter. As I know all too well. If you want to do it right—if you don’t want to get caught in a compromising situation—there are certain rules you must follow. A proper order to things. And I have adhered to them all.

I have no intention of getting caught.

Chapter Four

One floor above the foyer, in room 221, Simone Prescott’s new novel was going well. Very well, indeed. Maybe it was the rain streaming down the window, or the romantic glow of the gas fireplace, but she was inspired. She’d already written three whole chapters of her new idea and they were pure gold. Edgar Award–winning stuff. The atmosphere was pitch-perfect. The prose was taut and suspenseful, with just the right tone of eerie apprehension.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed with her laptop propped on a pillow, Simone felt serene. Like a novel-writing goddess.

BANG!

If only that damn window would stop slamming open.

Annoyed, she slid on her noise-canceling headphones. She would not allow a defective window latch to break her flow. She took a deep breath and reread her last few sentences. Yes, this was it. This was going to make her a mystery-writing superstar. This was her best work.

Although the last sentence was a bit long, wasn’t it? And should she really use the word dark to describe the setting? Dark felt like the obvious word. Perhaps she should dig deeper.

Obscure? Gloomy? Dusky? Yes, dusky was good. Dusky made her sound smart. She pounded on the backspace button, deleting d-a-r-k with the ferocity of a scorned wife stabbing her cheating husband, and replaced it with the new word. Much better.

She glanced at the open page of The Bestseller Formula, sitting on the bed beside her.

The setting of a mystery novel should feel like another character in the story. Like people, settings should be complex, mysterious, flawed, and unpredictable. Settings should have secrets of their own.

BANG!

The wind slammed into the casement, forcing the latch to give way. A gust of cold air tore through the room, bringing with it a torrent of icy rain that splattered the floor.

“Argh!” Wasn’t this supposed to be a distraction-free writing conference?

Simone yanked off her headphones, unfolded her long tanned legs, and hurried over to push the window shut, the rusty hinge creaking from the strain. The latch clicked, but it wouldn’t last. Someone would have to fix it. How could she possibly create under these conditions?

She strode across the room and wrenched open the door, nearly jumping out of her skin when she came face-to-face with a tall woman in a housekeeping uniform standing in the hallway.

“Holy shit! You scared me to death!”

“I am sorry, Ms. Prescott. I have your conference materials.” The maid handed her a folder and a name tag lanyard. Simone tossed the lanyard onto the bed—she never bothered to wear name tags, people tended to remember her—and opened the packet, glancing at the schedule. When her gaze landed on the keynote speaker’s name, her heart skipped several beats.

“Do you know if Ian—Mr. McCloud has arrived yet?” she asked, trying to keep her voice casual as she pretended to peruse the rest of the itinerary. Not that she planned on attending any of the events. It would be difficult to focus on a critique group or character workshop while her mind was trapped between an intoxicating pre-sex frenzy and a blissful post-sex haze.

“Not yet,” said the housekeeper in a clipped accent. “Our special guest will arrive soon. It is very exciting to meet such a famous writer, no?”

Simone quickly sized her up, the way she did with all of Ian’s fans, and after deeming her far from a threat, with her makeup-less pale face, limp hair, and sad eyes, flashed her a smile. “Yes, it is.”

“If you need anything else, please tell me,” said the housekeeper.

Simone was about to mention the broken window when a deep booming voice echoed from the foyer. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you expect me? I was invited to speak, wasn’t I?”

“What’s going on?” Simone turned toward the maid, but she was already pushing her bulky housekeeping cart down the hallway.

“This is an outrage!” shouted the voice from downstairs. It was unmistakably British and vaguely familiar. “I am an esteemed member of the publishing community! I will not be treated like some slush-pile reject!”

Simone rolled her eyes and shut the door. Whoever was throwing a tantrum downstairs—probably a writer, some writers were so dramatic—she would not allow them to ruin her weekend.

A gust of wind slammed against the window and the latch gave way again with another loud bang! Or was it more like a thwack or a clatter? Onomatopoeia had always stumped her.

No matter. She couldn’t worry about that now. There was too much to do before Ian arrived. She stepped over the water pooling on the floor and into the bathroom to get ready.

“That’s it! I’m calling my lawyer!” The dramatic voice exploded into the air again, now rising up from the front entrance below Simone’s open window. “I’m going to sue the pants off this company and everyone involved. You will rue the day you double-crossed Alastair Sinclair!”

Simone froze, the images of her blissful post-sex hazes evaporating into mist. Alastair Sinclair was here? That damn agent would ruin everything!

Then, somewhere outside the window, an engine roared. It sounded like a motorcycle.

What kind of idiot drives a motorcycle in this weather?

The rider revved the engine like he was answering her question with a resounding This idiot! Simone walked to the open window and peered out. What she saw stopped her cold. And not just because of the icy rain battering her face.

Ian McCloud sat astride the purring bike, his leather jacket dripping wet. He pulled off his helmet, revealing a head of thick brown hair slicked back in a way only he could make look sexy. And sitting behind him, arms wrapped around his torso, was another floozy barely half his age.

Ian cut the engine, silencing the world, apart from the buzzing in Simone’s brain. As her gaze darted between his face and the girl’s wet dress clinging to her legs, something came over Simone. A feeling so clear, so defined, that for once in her life, she plucked the right word out of her head with no effort at all.

Rage.

Isabel jumped off the bike and took off into the trees.

“Hey!” Ian McCloud called after her. “Stop! Where are you going?”

She kept running, his voice trailing after her like a fading dream. The forest blurred around her, the damp monastery grounds swallowing her until she no longer could hear his shouts. But they did little to erase the memory of the motorcycle ride up here. The sharp bends in the road and the creaky old bridge that McCloud had taken at a maniacal pace. The rain and wind that had slapped and blinded her. That look on his face as he’d helped her onto the bike, his gaze lingering too long on the wet, clinging fabric of her dress. Lecherous, almost hungry.

At least he hadn’t recognized her. Both a relief and a knife in her chest.

Of course he didn’t recognize you. You’re a dime a dozen to him.

She stopped running and threw up in a nearby bush.

“Get ahold of yourself!” she choked out, but it didn’t help. Her brain was betraying her. It seemed to do that a lot lately. When she sat down to write, when she lay down to sleep. How could she be so at war with her own mind? Who exactly was fighting whom?

Stomach finally empty, she stood and wiped her mouth, taking in her surroundings. She was at the edge of a landscaped clearing with a rustic wooden gazebo at the center. Just beyond, a large shimmering pool lay littered with leaves and debris from the storm. The infinity edge made the dark steaming water look like it was falling straight off the cliff, blending with the curtain of rain beyond.

The hot springs, Isabel remembered from the description on the conference website. “During the renovation process, the owners of Pen Ultimate Writers were able to tap into the area’s natural resources, transforming what was once a modest thermal spring into a spa-like oasis.”

But it didn’t mention the smell. The sulfurous tang nearly made her vomit again.

Isabel shivered as rain seeped into her bones. She had to get dry or she’d freeze to death. But her feet wouldn’t move. As she gazed at the monastery rising up from the surrounding forest, every part of her felt paralyzed. The woods came alive around her, branches reaching out like gnarled fingers, every rustling leaf and snapping twig a piercing scream in her mind. She stared at the ground to steady herself, but the forest floor rushed up to grab her—

feet pounding on wet earth—lungs gasping for air—the cottage—the door—red like fresh blood—dripping into her eyes—“I’m calling the police!”—so much blood—

She blinked, chasing the hazy, splintered images back into the depths of her mind. She would not let them deter her.

Isabel fumbled to open her purse, still strapped sideways around her from the death-defying motorcycle ride, and rooted around inside until her fingers brushed against the smooth, waxy surface of the pharmacy bag she’d packed last night. The rain had slightly dampened its crisp edges, but as she carefully peeled back the flap and peered inside, the contents instantly calmed her nerves and filled her with a renewed sense of purpose.

There are bad people in this world, mija. Good guys and bad guys, just like in your storybooks, her mother used to warn her. It was the last thing she said, six months ago, as the cancer finally won the battle and the life slipped out of her. You must learn to tell the difference.

Apparently, that was easier said than done.

She gazed up again at the monastery looming in the distance. Through this chaotic storm that had become her life, it felt like a promise. A silent oath she was determined to keep.

Darius’s watch vibrated relentlessly, warning of his escalating pulse. Of all the ways he imagined meeting his idol for the first time, none included a physical brawl. But it was clear that was exactly where this situation was heading.

Ian McCloud stood motionless in the entrance to the foyer, tall and broad-shouldered, with his trademark panama hat sitting slightly crooked on his wet hair, anger radiating off him in thick waves. Ten paces away, in the center of the room, stood Alastair Sinclair. Thin and wiry, with floppy hair and leathery skin, he looked more like a washed-up rock star than a literary agent.

“What is he doing here?” On the surface, Ian McCloud’s voice was low, controlled by a few flimsy shreds of willpower, while underneath, a deep and bitter hatred coursed.

Jade stepped forward, looking sick at the thought of coming between the two men, but thankfully, Bennett positioned himself in front of his boss.

“Ian. There’s been a small misunderstanding. I’m taking care of it. Why don’t we get you settled in your room and—”

The author shoved his assistant aside and took a menacing step toward Alastair. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here, you lying sack of shit!”

Alastair’s fight-or-flight reflexes were clearly on high alert. He looked one flinch away from running or lunging. “Takes one to know one, I suppose,” he muttered under his breath.

McCloud grimaced. “Your career is over, old man. You’re finished. I made sure of that.”

“You mean your pathetic tweet?” The agent let out a scornful laugh. “Is that what you think passes for compelling writing these days? If so, I’d be more worried about your career than mine.”

Darius cringed as his gaze ping-ponged back to McCloud. He’d seen the tweet, obviously. Compelling was certainly one word for it. Condemning would be another. Ian McCloud hadn’t just accused his agent of stealing; he’d made sure no writer would ever want to work with him again.

“As of today, that tweet has been seen by half a million people,” McCloud snarled, glancing at his assistant as if expecting to be fact-checked.

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand, actually,” said Bennett.

“Brilliant!” Alastair fired back. “Because that tweet is nothing but slander. And every eyeball that sees it is an extra zero on the big fat check you’ll have to write me when I drag your sorry ass to court and sue you into oblivion.”

McCloud snorted. “I’d love to see you try.”

“Careful, Ian.” Alastair’s voice fell so low Darius had to strain to hear. “I have a few tweets of my own that I’m sure many people would love to read. I kept quiet during the scandal with the Palmer girl because I wanted to protect my client. But as you well know, you’re no longer my client.”

“I never touched her,” McCloud spat. “She was lying to get publicity for her book. Everyone knows that.”

“Still,” Alastair taunted. “It’d be a shame to dredge it all up again, wouldn’t it? Especially with your new release so close at hand. How disappointing to have another book canceled before anyone has a chance to read it.”

With a roar, McCloud lunged at the agent, fist cocked. The blow landed squarely across Alastair’s jaw, knocking him to his knees. He was up in a flash, fists raised to protect his face. He looked more like a middle-aged man at his first shadowboxing class than someone who had any chance of winning a fight. But Alastair charged anyway, his head colliding with Ian’s stomach. The author stumbled back, his hat flying, his body crashing into a statue of what was, moments ago, a serene-looking cherub. Its face hit the floor with an unsettling crack.

McCloud staggered back to his feet as Alastair charged again, throwing a punch that just missed. The agent stumbled into a potted ficus, scattering soil across the floor. Ian seized the opportunity and pulled back his fist, the punch aimed at Alastair’s back. But it never connected.

“Knock it off! Right now! For heaven’s sake. This is a writing conference, not a pool hall.”

Stunned, the two men froze to face the tiny woman who had stepped between them, hands on her hips like a fearless referee in a boxing ring. She looked old enough to be their mother—maybe even their grandmother—and she was dressed head to toe in bright fuchsia.

“I mean, honestly. Are y’all grown men, or young boys fighting over a G.I. Joe?”

The foyer fell silent. No one could believe what they were seeing. The woman straightened her pink blazer and untangled her locket chain, which had gotten twisted in the scuffle.

“That’s better.” Her accent had a deep Southern twang. “Now shake hands and make nice.”

Darius’s mouth fell open. She wasn’t actually expecting them to…

“Go on,” the woman urged with a scowl. “Every time my boys fought, they had to shake hands and make nice after.” She scoffed. “ ’Course they’re grown men now and know how to behave in public.” She cast an intimidating look at Ian and Alastair and snapped her fingers. “Let’s go. We don’t have all day. Some of us have writing to do.”

McCloud grumbled before miraculously extending his hand. Darius’s gaze darted to Alastair, who was bent over, hands on his knees, still panting from the fight. For a long moment, nothing happened, and Darius’s chest squeezed at the thought of the agent simply walking away, seizing the opportunity to get in one last silent jab at his former client. But then, with a weary sigh, he wiped a smear of blood from his cracked lip, stood up, and roughly gripped McCloud’s hand.

“Good boys.” The older woman pushed her shoulders back and strode toward the doors, which were wide open and letting in rain. She picked up a carry-on suitcase, a soft-sided carrier, and a laptop tote from where she’d dropped them. “Now, who’s in charge around here?”

Jade spoke in a shaky voice. “I am. I’m Jade Brooks, the facilitator.”

“Evelyn Channing,” replied the woman. “Pleased to meet you.”

Darius felt the tension in the foyer evaporate, like someone had opened a window to clear away the stench of something rotting.

That is, until he glanced back at McCloud, who was dusting off his panama hat and glaring at Alastair. As he placed the hat back on his head, the author’s lips moved ever so slightly—words exchanged under the cover of heavy breaths. Darius wasn’t a lip-reader but he didn’t have to be. These words were meant to be understood.

I will end you.

Well, that went even better than I planned.

Obviously this was all planned. You don’t really think I’d leave the most important story of my life to chance, do you?

Writing a murder is all about being a master manipulator. You have to create the cause and the effect. You have to set the right things in motion with the right catalysts. For instance, I knew if I put Ian and Alastair in a room together, they would fight. That’s why I put them in a room together.

At this point, you might be wondering why I’m going through all this trouble. Why drag all these people up here in this god-awful weather just for one of them to end up dead? Certainly there are easier ways to kill someone.

The thing is, this is about so much more than just a murder. It’s not about who will die or when or even how. It’s about why. That’s the part I really need you to understand. Otherwise all my planning—all my agonizing and pacing and careful arranging and rearranging of every detail—will be for nothing.

Killing someone is easy. Boring, even.

Revealing why they had to die? That’s the real story.

Step 2

“The Looming Threat”

Chapter Five

“Mr. Sinclair, on behalf of Pen Ultimate Writers, I sincerely apologize for the mix-up.” Jade could not stop her hands from shaking. The man who sat across the desk from her in the monastery’s back office was still red-faced and fuming, looking like he was ready for another fight.

“Mix-up,” he spat with a derisive laugh. “Is that what you call inviting the man who tried to ruin my career and reputation with a single tweet?”

Jade took a breath, eyes darting anxiously around the small office. It appeared to be empty apart from her and the agent. Where was Jasmine hiding out now? She wished her sister could somehow tell her what to do. Jasmine was always better at confrontations. Jade usually hid from them.

“Please believe me, Mr. Sinclair—” Jade stopped. Her voice was shaking too. She cleared her throat. “I was told by the head office that this matter was resolved.”

Alastair jutted out his chin, looking like a spoiled child. “So was I.”

“You were? So they did call you?”

“Yes,” said Alastair defensively. “They called me just yesterday to tell me that the scumbag out there had been disinvited, and would I please honor my invitation to speak.”

Jade’s stomach dropped. That couldn’t be right. He must have misunderstood.

“With whom did you speak?” Jade tried to keep her voice light.

Alastair’s eyes flashed. “You don’t believe me?”

“No, it’s not that,” she rushed to say. It was exactly that. “There’s just clearly been a misunderstanding somewhere up the chain.” She straightened a stack of papers on the desk. “And I want to resolve it as quickly as possible.”

Alastair leaned back and studied his fingernails. “I don’t know. He didn’t give a name.”

Jade’s head started to throb. She fumbled for the phone. It felt less like a landline and more like a lifeline. “Uh, just one moment, please. I’ll get this sorted out.”

“Be my guest.” Alastair crossed his arms, watching Jade’s every move like a hawk. Her hands were numb as she carefully dialed the number printed on a laminated instruction card affixed to the phone. How would she possibly tell this man he had to leave?

She was about to punch in the last digit when suddenly the world exploded with a deafening boom. It echoed from every direction, shaking the walls. Alastair covered his head, as if expecting the ceiling to collapse. “What the bloody hell was that?”

Jade fought to keep her expression neutral. “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. The valley makes strange noises sometimes and the sound echoes. You get used to it.”

“It sounded like a cannon!”

“It was probably just thunder.” Her voice cracked.

Alastair studied Jade’s face for a long time, as if trying to see past the disguise. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be running a conference?”

“I’m thirty-five,” Jade lied, adjusting her glasses. They were supposed to make her look older, but apparently they weren’t working.

She squirmed under Alastair’s intense gaze, searching for a distraction. Her eyes settled on the framed quote hanging above the agent’s head, now crooked.

“In writing, you must kill all your darlings.”

—William Faulkner

Jade cleared her throat again and focused back on the phone. What number was she on? She set the receiver down and picked it back up, carefully punching in each digit. But when she placed the phone to her ear, she heard nothing but silence on the other end.

Jade glanced at the dizzying array of buttons on the base. Line 1 was lit up, just as the instructions described. She hung up and tried again, walking carefully through the steps, aware of the agent’s eyes on her. Pick up the receiver, press line 1 for an outside line, wait for the dial tone.

But there was no dial tone.

Being in her late twenties, Jade knew little about how landline phones worked. She fiddled with the cords anyway, checking the connection between the base and the receiver. It seemed to be intact.

Alastair let out an impatient sigh. “Problems?”

“Uh,” she stammered again, still holding the receiver in one hand.

“Oh, just let me do it.” Alastair rose from his seat and shooed her out of the way. Jade watched on, numbly, as he knelt down and wedged himself under the desk, cursing as he jiggled cords and replugged the phone jack. “Try it now.”

Jade picked up the receiver again and her throat tightened. “Nothing.”

Alastair climbed back to his feet and took the receiver from her shaking hand. He placed it in the cradle with a hollow click. “Well, it appears the phone lines are dead.”

“The purpose of Step 2 is to shake things up, introduce a new threat, and give your murderer the opportunity they need to enact their nefarious plans.”

The voice of the audiobook narrator did little to soothe Darius’s frayed nerves as he poked his head out from under the large canopy bed in the center of room 210. His heart was still pounding from that monstrous crash that had shaken the building a moment ago, rattling the windows in their frames and sending him diving for cover.

“Step 2 is also when the first big conflict falls upon your characters. This could be a dead body, an attack, or a new situation that raises the stakes and threatens the characters’ lives.”

He scanned the room for debris. But there was none. Just a few frames knocked askew. He crawled out from under the bed and continued to unpack his suitcase, pulling out his travel-size memory foam pillow, hypoallergenic sleep mask, and portable sound machine, which he plugged in by the nightstand. He attempted to take deep breaths, but between that awful crash and the fight in the foyer, his nerves were shot to hell. He just couldn’t shake the image of his longtime idol growling and throwing punches at a man he’d once called not just an agent, but a friend.

But betrayal can do strange things to a person, as Darius knew all too well.

“By now you should have already hinted at several possible motives, which you’ll continue to develop throughout the story—”

A knock came at the door. Darius jumped, banging his head on the underside of the desk as he attempted to plug in his battered old laptop.

“Hello? Is anyone in here?” called a female voice with a distinct Southern twang.

Darius paused The Bestseller Formula and rushed to open the door. Evelyn Channing—the woman who’d broken up the fight—stood in the hallway, dressed in an explosion of cobalt blue. Everything from her knit dress to the rims of her glasses was the color of sapphires.

“Oh, thank heavens!” she said, clutching the locket around her neck. “I’ve been up and down these hallways knocking on every door, but there’s no one here.”

Darius peered out into the empty corridor. “Really?” He checked the time on his watch, ignoring the elevated heart rate alert. Four o’clock. Most of the guests should have arrived by now.

“I was changing into my dinner clothes and I heard that terrible crash,” Evelyn went on. “I tried to call the office to find out what was going on, but the phones don’t work.”

The alert started flashing red. “What?”

“Maybe it’s just mine.” She nodded toward the phone sitting by Darius’s bed, where his small suitcase lay open, half unpacked. He hurried over and picked up the receiver. No dial tone.

“I’ve never been to a writing conference before, but this one seems to be off to a strange start,” remarked Evelyn.

“Yes.” Darius slowly replaced the receiver, his mind whirling.

“What do you think that sound was?” Evelyn asked. “Thunder? Or maybe an earthquake? Isn’t this part of California famous for its earthquakes?”

“And landslides,” Darius added, very familiar with the phenomenon. He’d almost been unable to get on the plane because of it. He’d stood at the gate in Denver, watching the last of the passengers board, clutching the straps of his backpack as if they were the straps of a parachute.

He also didn’t love flying.

The sound of smacking lips brought Darius’s attention back to the hallway, where Evelyn was anxiously popping what looked like jelly beans into her mouth. “If it was a landslide, that’s likely what took out the phone lines.”

Darius frowned. “But the facilitator said the room phones were only internal.”

Evelyn shrugged. “If it’s a standard PBX system and a tree branch took out the incoming line, the whole system would go down.” She popped another jelly bean into her mouth and extended her hand to Darius like a cater waiter. “Want one?”

He glanced at the colorful array in her palm. “Uh, no thanks.”

“I’m a bit addicted. I used them to quit smoking after my husband died—God rest his soul. Now I can’t stop.” She tossed another into her mouth. “Mmm. S’mores. They make the most interesting flavors these days. When I was a kid, it was just plain old cherry and lime.”

“I think I’ll go look for that facilitator,” said Darius, pushing past Evelyn into the hallway. He closed the door behind him. “Find out what’s going on.”

“Good thinking,” Evelyn said through a mouthful of candy. “Oh, and if you see a gray cat roaming around here, will you let me know?”

Darius paused. “You brought a cat to a writing conference?”

“Oh, I never go anywhere without Dexter.”

“Dexter?”

“I named him after that character on TV. You know, the serial killer? It seemed fitting. The first night I brought him home, he murdered five mice in cold blood.”

Darius swallowed down a bit of bile that had risen up in his throat.

“But don’t worry,” Evelyn rushed to add. “Just like the guy on the show, he’s got a good heart. Underneath his thirst for blood, that is.” She popped in another jelly bean. “Ooh! This one tastes like passion fruit.”

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out,” Darius promised.

As he scurried down the eerily empty corridor, his smartwatch beeped again, this time reminding him of his mounting sleep deficit. As if he needed a reminder. He hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since he’d received that mysterious email from Ian McCloud inviting him here, and he was exhausted. He had to get some sleep tonight. He didn’t even want to think about what might happen if he didn’t.

Chapter Six

“Hello?” Isabel called from the foyer entrance, trying to make sense of the scene before her. It looked like the storm had made its way indoors. A statue of a cherub lay on its side, its serene face now a web of cracks. A potted ficus was tipped over, soil spilling out like a dark stain on the pristine floor. And one of the chandeliers was flickering.

“Is anyone here?” She listened to the ensuing silence, broken only by the sharp drip, drip, drip of water from her hair hitting the marble tiles. This was a writing conference, wasn’t it? Where was all the activity? The boisterous pitching of ridiculous book ideas? The war stories about writing the second act? Instead, she got the disturbing feeling she was being watched.

“Mystery writers don’t invent characters—we discover them, one secret at a time.”

—W. M. Ridgemore

Isabel shivered at the quote and stepped farther into the foyer. The place reminded her of the old churches her mother used to drag her to when she was a kid, presumably to instill the fear of God into her, which never really worked. Isabel wasn’t exactly the most well-behaved child.

She wasn’t the most well-behaved adult, for that matter.

Making her way to the table by the stairs, Isabel located her name tag and welcome packet. As she scanned the schedule inside, quickly committing it to memory, she noticed a black binder on the table and curiously flipped through the first few pages.

“Can I help you?” said a voice behind her.

Isabel shut the binder. “Yes, hi.” She smiled at the woman in the pressed white uniform, who gave her a pointed look in return. Isabel couldn’t blame her. She looked like some drowned lady of the lake from a horror novel. “I’m Isabel Torres. I’m here for the conference.” She brandished her name tag as proof.

The woman’s expression softened. “Yes, welcome,” she said with a thick accent. “I am Marjorie Ivanov, the head housekeeper. I am happy to show you to your room now, yes?”

“Oh, I can manage,” said Isabel. “I just need to know which room I’m in.”

“Of course.” Marjorie pulled out a scuffed-up cellphone and unlocked the screen just as the chandelier over the stairs flickered again. “Ah yes, I see you are in room 213. Your bag arrived with Mr. McCloud. I put it to your room. Or I can move it to Mr. McCloud’s room if you prefer—”

“What?” Isabel’s pulse jumped. “No. My room is fine.”

Marjorie’s cheeks flushed. “I am so sorry. I saw you arrive together and I thought—”

“He just gave me a ride,” Isabel said quickly. “My car went off the road.” She forced a smile and started for the stairs, clutching the welcome packet to her chest. The last thing she needed this weekend was anyone asking her questions about Ian McCloud.

The second floor was a labyrinth of branching hallways, adorned with dark wood wainscoting and overhead lights that sputtered and dimmed in sync with the battering rain. Room 213 waited at the end of the south wing, positioned next to a rusted metal door with a sign that read No Entry.

Isabel eased the door open to reveal a dark service stairwell that twisted dizzyingly from floor to floor, disappearing into shadows. A rickety railing with decaying wood balusters barely clung to the construction. Clearly, any money spent to renovate the place hadn’t been allocated here.

A quiet creaking sound pierced her thoughts, like footsteps tiptoeing across floorboards. Isabel whirled around, expecting to find someone behind her, but the hallway was empty.

She slipped inside her room, tossed her purse and welcome packet on the bed, and peeled off her sopping wet dress. She dumped out the contents of her small duffel bag and changed into a pair of baggy pants and a tank top. Ah, much better.

Avoiding the mirror in the bathroom as she always did, she dabbed her face with a towel and ran a brush through her tangled wet curls. Then, after stashing the pharmacy bag in her nightstand drawer, she grabbed the heavy brass key from the entry table and hurried into the hallway, her mind racing through the events of the evening. Welcome drinks, dinner, fireside chat. Plenty of time.

She checked twice to make sure her room was locked before spinning toward the corridor. That’s when she realized she wasn’t alone.

“Oof!” Before Darius could contemplate what was happening, there was something solid jamming into his side and he was flipping through the air. He landed hard on his back. “Ow.”

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry! I thought you were—You scared me.”

The person hovering over him was blurry from the impact. When Darius’s vision finally focused, he was convinced he was dreaming. Or he’d smacked his head harder than he thought. Because the face that shimmered into view was too stunning to be real. She had tousled dark curls undercut on one side to reveal silver studs in her ear, and a mesmerizing tattoo snaked up her right forearm. She looked like a heroine from a gritty crime novel. And he loved gritty crime novels.

“Here, let me help you up.” She offered her hand and he took it.

“What was that?” he asked blearily as he stumbled back to his feet and untangled his lanyard.

“Oh, just a simple disarming maneuver.”

He rubbed the back of his head. “What are you, an assassin or something?”

She chuckled. “No. But I do have a black belt in tae kwon do. Which apparently comes in handy at a writing conference.”

“Yes, apparently.” He could not stop staring at her.

“Look, I’m really sorry,” she said again. “I guess I’m just a little jumpy from the storm.”

He nodded. “Me, too. Did you hear that loud noise earlier? I nearly peed my pants.”

Smooth, Darius. Real smooth.

He cleared his throat and tried for a recovery. “You know, if this were a rom-com conference, people might call this a meet-cute.” He gestured between the two of them.

She gave him a blank look. “But it’s a mystery conference.”

“Right.” He fidgeted with his name tag. “So, not a meet-cute. Not even a cute. Just a meet.”

What the hell was he saying?

“I’m Darius.” He brandished his name tag like a detective proving his credentials during a door-to-door investigation. “I’m staying right down the hall.”

“Nice to meet you.” She smiled as she shook his hand but didn’t offer her own name in response. And she wasn’t wearing her lanyard. He found the whole thing rather…mysterious.

His gaze fell to the tattoo on her forearm. The design—a drop of blood trapped in a fiery halo, guarded by crisscrossing steel blades—was achingly familiar. Where had he seen that before?

“Can I have my hand back now?” she asked with a playful raise of her brow.

“Sorry!” He hadn’t realized he was still holding it. “Please don’t disarm me again.”

She snorted. “I won’t.”

“So, what do you write?”

She looked like she didn’t understand the question. Isn’t this what people talked about at a writing conference? “Um, mystery novels,” she finally replied.

He laughed. “Of course, but like, what kind? Cozy? Psychological? Hard-boiled detective?”

She gave him that blank look again. “Oh, I dabble in a little of everything.”

“That’s cool. You should send me something. I have a YouTube channel where I analyze mystery novels. I mean, it’s mostly Ian McCloud novels, but I sometimes feature other writers too. My following is decent. I mean, not, like, stellar but I had a few videos go viral…” He trailed off when he noticed her eyes had glazed over. “Sorry, I’m babbling.”

Just forget it. She’s way out of your league.

“You know,” she said, as if suddenly remembering something, “I just thought of an idea for my main character’s backstory.” She gestured to her door. “I should go write it down.”

His shoulders sagged. “Of course. You never want to keep a muse waiting.”

“Right. Nice to meet you, Darius.” She disappeared back into room 213 and closed the door.

He tried to ignore the stab of disappointment just as a crack of thunder caused the hallway lights to flicker, reminding Darius why he’d come down this way. He still hadn’t found that facilitator—or any sign of another guest, besides the mysterious “Girl in Room 213.”

Ooh, good title.

The door to his left said No Entry, so he backtracked the way he’d come. He was just turning the corner when he heard the click of a door opening. He paused, listening to the tentative footsteps creaking on the hardwood floor. He tiptoed back and peered around the corner just in time to see mystery girl slip through the door marked No Entry and disappear into the darkness.

Chapter Seven

“I made that loser.” Ian McCloud paced the lounge with a sloshing glass of single malt scotch in his hand and a maniacal look in his eyes. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated his face, casting stark shadows across his cheekbones. “Alastair Sinclair was nothing before me. Nothing!”

Bennett tried to appear interested, but it was quickly becoming the hardest part of his job. It was a little after four o’clock and the lounge was eerily empty apart from McCloud, already three drinks in, and Bennett perched at a two-top in the middle of the candlelit room.

The space had clearly once been a chapel, evident from the vaulted ceilings that echoed with distant rumbles of thunder. Ornate stained-glass windows rattled as gusts of wind howled outside. There was no bartender on duty, just a cart with an assortment of drinks. The only combination worse than Ian McCloud and an open bar was Ian McCloud and an open bar he could tend himself.

“He was just a junior agent when I signed with him,” McCloud ranted. “Did I tell you that?”

Bennett bit back a snide remark. He had told him that. At least ten times since the scandal broke two days ago. “So which keynote are you going to give tomorrow?” he asked in an attempt to derail his boss. “I like the one on the art of misdirection.”

“It was 1995,” McCloud went on, adjusting his hat. “I was working as a high school football coach, writing in my spare time. I had a mortgage I couldn’t afford and a wife with a pathetic little receptionist job at the local police department that brought in even less money than mine did.”

Bennett sighed and took a minuscule sip of his own drink.

“Things were simpler then.” McCloud’s voice grew melancholy, the way it always did when he talked about his wife. “Before the movie deals and TV interviews and fucking stalkers knocking on my door in the middle of the night dressed as Dying Violets.” Spittle dribbled down his chin and he hastily wiped it away. “Sometimes I don’t blame Megan for wanting to get away from it all.”

The “McClouds”: A marriage carved by the sharp edges of fame. Megan, an exile in the French countryside, fleeing the blinding glare of his celebrity while Ian basks in New York’s literary glow, free to indulge in his dalliances, untouched by guilt or the light of consequence.

“…but how were we to know?” McCloud was saying, his words slurring. “We were broke and desperate. When I started shopping The Painted Alibi, it was exciting. I had three hotshot agents lined up, all champing at the bit to represent me. But did I go with any of them?”

No, Bennett mouthed along with the story. I decided to take a shot on a new kid.

“A hungry new kid,” McCloud went on, wobbling slightly as he turned and crossed the lounge again. “He had no other clients so I knew I would get his undivided attention.”

“Why don’t you sit down?” Bennett gestured to the chair across from him, where his boss’s leather jacket was hanging to dry.

“And I was right!” McCloud roared, then cringed and placed a hand to the side of his head. Evidently, the hangover was already starting. Did Bennett remember to pack the aspirin? “Alastair sold that book in a three-book deal. It debuted at number one on the Times list. And so did the next one and the next one.” He emptied his glass in one gulp.

Bennett took another resigned sip of his drink. Despite penning over thirty New York Times bestsellers, this was Ian McCloud’s favorite story to tell.

There was a series of clumsy clanks and sloshes as McCloud attempted to refill his glass from the heavy crystal flask. Bennett glanced around the empty lounge for help. Where was that facilitator? What was her name? Ruby? Opal? It was some kind of semiprecious stone. Bennett still hadn’t been able to use the goddamn phone.

“By the time we sold book four, A Convenient Suicide, Alastair was able to start his own agency. All because of me.”

Bennett listened with practiced patience, not bothering to correct the man. It just wasn’t worth the effort. A Convenient Suicide was book six. Book four was Serial Intent. It seemed the older McCloud got, the more he drank, the worse his memory deteriorated. Even about his own books.

“And then he has the nerve to steal two million dollars from me? From me?” McCloud tapped his full glass against his chest, spilling a few drops onto his button-down shirt.

Bennett’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out, grateful for the distraction even though he knew that with no cell service, it was probably just a calendar alert. Some event in the city he wouldn’t be able to attend because he was trapped here, watching his boss try to lick drops of single malt scotch off the front of his shirt.

One unnamed network found. Connect now?

Bennett blinked, certain what little he’d had to drink had already gone to his head. He reached for the button to connect just as the message vanished from the screen. What the fuck? He toggled the Wi-Fi on and off, holding his breath, but nothing happened. Maybe it was a glitch. Or maybe the signal was just weak in this room…

“Do you know how I found out?”

Bennett looked up, having completely lost track of the rant. “About what?”

“That the bastard was stealing from me!” McCloud shouted right as a deafening thunderclap rang out, causing the lights in the room to flicker.

Bennett straightened in his seat, his spine tingling. “No, how did you find out?”

“You’ll never believe it.” McCloud took a sip of his drink just as that nerdy YouTube kid hurried into the bar, looking fresh and dry in a pair of pressed khakis and a white polo shirt. Bennett felt a stab of envy. He was still wearing his damp travel clothes.

“Hey,” Darius said, glancing eagerly around the lounge. “Have you seen Jade?”

“Who?” asked Bennett.

“The facilitator.”

“No,” Bennett muttered, and peered again at his screen. Still no sign of the network.

Darius straightened up when he saw who was at the bar cart. “Mr. McCloud! You’re here.”

Ian waved. “In the flesh!”

“It’s such an honor to finally meet you in person.” Darius marched toward him, his hand already outstretched. “As you know, I’ve been a fan for many years. I’m Darius Walker.”

Bennett noted the emphasis Darius put on his own name. As if he actually expected McCloud to recognize it. It wasn’t unusual. Most fans expected to be remembered. I’m Sally Smith. You signed my copy of Season of Dying Violets five years ago at Powell’s in Portland. Remember?

Even after three and a half drinks, McCloud played the part well. “Of course, Darius Walker. Good to see you, my friend.” He tipped his hat as he pumped Darius’s eager hand and then slapped a glass of scotch into it. “Join me for a drink.”

“Actually, I—” Darius glanced back at the door, looking torn.

“Excellent idea!” Bennett stood up, seizing his opportunity. “I’m just going to make sure all the luggage arrived in our rooms. Here, Darius. You can take my seat.”

As Darius sat down, fresh drink cradled in his hands, his hesitation seemed to give way to excitement. His eyes brimmed with the expectation of scintillating conversation and a peek at the inner workings of a mastermind.

They were always so keen at the beginning. Bennett had once been keen himself. But he knew Darius’s eagerness would wane soon enough. Just like the rest of them.

In a good murder, there are a lot of moving parts to keep track of. A solid outline is essential. Mine is elaborate and color coded and airtight. It better be, after how long I spent working on it.

I can remember so many long nights alone in my office, obsessing over the details, shuffling people and objects around like pieces on a chessboard, trying so desperately to get it right. Pulling off the perfect murder is a lot of work. Anyone who tries to tell you different has never done it.

Sometimes I would stay up all night, clutching my coffee cup and my highlighter pens, researching locations and weather patterns and how long it takes for someone to die from various injuries. Bitterly steeping in my anger and my poisonous thoughts with no one to keep me company but my Glock 42, safely tucked away in the top drawer of my desk.

Don’t worry, I’ve never actually fired it. I bought it years ago for protection. Writing is a solitary endeavor. I’m alone a lot in my office, working for long hours. The woods make strange noises at night.

And writers have overactive imaginations.

Chapter Eight

Simone finished applying her mascara, plucked the last stray hair from her perfectly arched eyebrows, and stepped back to review her handiwork. She liked what she saw. She’d better. It had taken a lot of work to get her strawberry blond hair to look this irresistible and her makeup this natural. Now that she was in her early forties, effortless took a lot more effort.

But it had to be perfect. Tonight marked the start of a new chapter in Simone’s story. In their story. Ian was the dashing hero and she his enigmatic love interest—a complex yet irresistible character who had clawed her way out of a trailer park in Tennessee, escaping the clutches of a manipulative pageant mother and an even more manipulative modeling industry to find her way into his arms. They were destined to be together.

Destined? That was a tad cliché. And Simone refused to be a cliché. How about Their lives were threads woven into the same magnificent tapestry? Much better.

And it was true! Tonight was the night their threads finally connected. Simone had waited years for this moment and she didn’t want to wait another second.

She opened her welcome packet and pulled out today’s schedule.

4:00 p.m. Welcome reception — Lounge

7:00 p.m. Opening night dinner — Dining room

8:30 p.m. Fireside chat — Outdoor firepit (weather permitting)

She glanced at the time: 4:40. If she knew Ian—and boy, did she ever!—he’d be three drinks in by now. She checked her hair and makeup in the bathroom mirror once more, noticing the frame on the wall behind her had been knocked askew.

If in the first act you introduce a gun, by the third act you have to use it.

—Principle of Chekhov’s Gun

With a smile, she straightened the frame—she’d always loved that advice—opened the door to the hallway, and screamed.

A dead mouse lay on the floor outside her room.

“Let me give you a little advice, young man.” Ian McCloud swirled his drink, clinking the rocks in the glass. “You’re a writer, right?”

“Well…” Darius hesitated. “As you know, I’ve dabbled in—”

“Don’t trust anyone in the publishing industry.” McCloud leaned forward and pinned Darius with an intense stare. “They’re all lying, cheating scumbag leeches who don’t care a lick about your talent, just how much money you can make them.”

Darius squirmed in his seat, more than a little uncomfortable.

McCloud downed the last of his drink and lowered his glass with a clank. “And don’t even get me started on the writers. They’re the worst of the lot. Especially the ones who come to things like this.” He jutted his chin around the empty lounge. Darius followed his gaze. There was still no sign of the facilitator—or the other guests. Where was everyone?

“These places always stink of desperation,” McCloud went on with a grunt of disgust. His silver wedding band clinked as he drummed his fingers against his glass. “Don’t trust anyone here. They’d all climb over your dead body to get themselves a book deal.”

Darius thought about the email McCloud had sent last week, inviting him to this conference. I trust you. It’s others I’m wary about. “Does this…” He lowered his voice even though they were clearly alone. “Does this have anything to do with why I’m here?”

“Of course it does! It’s why we’re all here.” McCloud stood up and stumbled toward the bar cart, which Darius decided was a catastrophic idea. But when he tried to help the man, he was roughly shooed back to his chair. McCloud fumbled with the ice tongs, grabbing one cube at a time and concentrating hard on dropping them into his glass. He reached for the single malt scotch but never got there. His hands froze in midair and started to tremble.

At first, Darius thought it was the booze, slowly shutting down his system. Then he noticed McCloud wasn’t even looking at the bar cart anymore. He was staring at the doorway of the lounge, his eyes wide and his face drained of color, like he’d seen a ghost.

“What the fuck…?” The garbled words had barely left McCloud’s lips before he was on the move, striding toward the corridor with impressive dexterity for a man who moments ago couldn’t walk in a straight line. For the first time, the author looked like the famed detective from his novels. The dogged Marlow Griggs on the scent of another doomed suspect.

Darius rose from his chair and leaned over the table in an attempt to see what—or who—had caught the man’s attention. But there was nothing but an empty corridor. Not only had Ian McCloud seen a ghost, now he appeared to be chasing one as well.

Bennett hovered under an arched cloister of the monastery’s inner courtyard, clutching his phone. The wind shifted, blowing rain against his cheeks like a cold slap, but he could feel none of it. The message was back.

One unnamed network found. Connect now?

Blinking rain from his eyes, he frantically clicked to connect and waited, his heart hammering in his chest. This time, the small Wi-Fi symbol in the top corner of his screen appeared.

He knew it! There was a network. Which meant that facilitator woman had lied to him.

Quickly, he opened his inbox and swiped down, holding his breath. Then, like the clouds miraculously parting, the email he’d been waiting for all day appeared. The subject line read:

Our offer

The courtyard door slammed open. Bennett shoved his phone into his pocket.

“She’s here! The bitch is here! I saw her!” Ian McCloud staggered outside, looking like a man possessed, his eyes wild and dilated, the stench of alcohol oozing from his pores. Bennett had seen his boss drunk and angry. Plenty of times. But never with such a murderous expression on his face.

“I saw her, Bennett. In the hallway. She followed me here.”

Bennett approached his boss slowly, as if he were an injured beast. “It’s okay. How about we go upstairs and lie down? Get some rest?”

“She’s here. She’s trying to fuck with me.”

“No one is trying to fuck with you.” Bennett gingerly placed a hand on McCloud’s shoulder, fighting the urge to move six inches up and wrap it around his thick neck. If anyone’s being fucked with in this situation, it’s me. “C’mon. Let’s go. I’ll take you to your room.”

McCloud eyed the doorway to the foyer like it was the doorway to hell.

“It’s okay,” Bennett assured him again, feeling a sick kind of pleasure. The man was genuinely scared. “I’m right here.”

They took the elevator to the third floor and snaked through the corridors. The whole way, McCloud kept his eyes peeled for some imaginary boogeyman. Room 307 was tucked in a back corner of the south wing and, just as the facilitator had promised, it was unlocked.

The large room was lavishly decorated with rich tones and expensive fabrics. On the far side, a sliding glass door shrouded in heavy crimson drapes led to an oversize balcony. McCloud stumbled inside and immediately collapsed on the bed. Within seconds he was snoring. But Bennett knew not to be lulled into a false sense of security. Ian would be awake and roaming around the monastery in a matter of hours.

With a sigh, Bennett went to work, unpacking the multitude of luggage stacked in the corner. Everything had to be put in its proper place—laptop, phone, and tablet plugged in at the desk; protein bars and supplements on the dresser; designer cashmere slippers next to the bed; extra hats in the closet. Despite what McCloud wanted people to believe, the panama hat that had become his iconic look wasn’t one of a kind. He traveled with at least three as backups. God forbid he’d have to attend an event without his trademark accessory. Bennett still couldn’t believe women fell for that douchey pseudo-Hemingway playboy look. But they did. They fell in droves.

Bennett grabbed the ice bucket and placed it on the nightstand. He’d learned that one the hard way after he spent the morning scrubbing vomit from the hotel carpet.

Why don’t you just quit? his friends asked him on a regular basis—nearly every time his phone chirped in the middle of dinner with a frantic text from McCloud needing something urgent from the drugstore or a mall fifty miles away. His friends liked to joke that Bennett was more reliable than Amazon Prime. But Bennett couldn’t explain it, so he stopped trying.

When he first applied to be Ian McCloud’s assistant over a decade ago, he thought it would be more like a mentorship than a job. He was only twenty-nine at the time, and an aspiring mystery author himself. He’d been certain he’d learn all sorts of amazing things from McCloud. It was the dream job. Touring the world, eating at fancy restaurants, glimpsing into the mind of one of the most successful crime writers of his generation. But it had quickly turned into a nightmare.

There was no sitting in on brainstorms, reading early drafts, or pulling all-nighters to meet a deadline. There was listening to angry rants and cleaning up puke. There was fending off “Dying Violets” dressed as murder victims from McCloud’s most popular book. There were never-ending sleepless nights scheduling McCloud’s tweets, answering his emails, managing his calendar, doing all the things McCloud didn’t want to do. The jackass would sign up for anything that got him money and recognition—magazine interviews, charity book auctions, judging writing competitions. And guess who would be stuck answering the interview questions, shipping all the books, reading the crappy entries while McCloud was downstairs in the hotel bar seducing his latest diversion?

Moving to the bathroom, Bennett plugged in the electric toothbrush and arranged the skin care tubes in a straight line before reaching into the toiletry bag for the three bottles of prescription pills. He shook out the correct doses into his palm—two white hexagon-shaped pills for McCloud’s anxiety, two small blue ones for his blood pressure, and two green for his cholesterol. The stubborn prick refused to stop eating red meat and drinking like a fish, and this was the price.

Steak, liquor, pills. The holy trinity of self-destruction masquerading as status and success. Ian McCloud, the literary world’s ticking time bomb.

He filled a glass with bottled spring water from the supply in McCloud’s luggage and placed it with all six pills on the nightstand. As he crept toward the door, Bennett noticed a large brass key on the entry table. It appeared to be the only way to lock or unlock the door.

He glanced back at his boss, asleep on the bed with drool pooling at the corner of his mouth, and let himself be fueled by a deep, familiar hatred. How easy would it be to lock him in here until morning? It would certainly make Bennett’s job easier.

But then he pictured the bastard waking up in a few hours and pounding on the door to be let out, and with a grit of his teeth, left the key on the table and retreated into the hallway.

Only then, in the silence and solitude, did Bennett allow himself to look at his phone again.

The email sat unread in his inbox. He hovered his finger over the screen, wondering if this was the last labored breath he’d ever take. If, after ten years, this was the email that would finally set him free. From attending pointless conferences like this. From dragging eighteen pieces of luggage across a twenty-city book tour. From carrying a grown man to bed like a fucking child after he drank himself stupid. There was only one way to find out.

He clicked the email, his eyes hungrily skimming the text. The number wasn’t as big as he’d let himself imagine, but it was big enough to ease his galloping heart and taste the tantalizing flavor of freedom and vengeance. It was enough to start to repay the last ten years of his life.

$250,000. If I were you, I’d take it and run.

I think it’s time to talk about the body. You’ve been expecting it, haven’t you? Of course you have. I told you this was a murder. It’s only natural to think that, any moment now, someone might be found shot in the head or stabbed by a kitchen knife or with a poisoned glass of single malt scotch in their hand after they’d slowly choked to death.

I might use one of those. I might not.

But rest assured, someone will definitely die tonight. As I said, I didn’t drag everyone up here just to have them talk about books.

The body is an essential piece, but it’s also easy to mess up. I have to make sure it’s executed properly. You see, plotting a murder is all about setting up two crucial things: motive and opportunity. I’ve already hinted at several possible motives. Now it’s time to work on the opportunity.

In other words, I have to make sure no one leaves.

Chapter Nine

The headlights of Alastair Sinclair’s Jaguar disappeared down the long, winding driveway in a swirl of rain and fog. Jade watched from the front steps, the knot in her chest tightening. She’d done everything she could to appease the man, but he’d stormed out of the office in a huff, threatening to sue again.

She couldn’t dwell on that now, though. There was far too much to do.

With a sigh, Jade closed the front door and took in the chaotic scene. Remnants of the fight were still scattered around the foyer. She bent down and picked up one of the framed quotes that had fallen, squinting to read the text through the splintered glass.

“In the game of mystery, the best clues are the ones hiding in plain sight.”

—Octavia Hawthorne

“I am so sorry, Ms. Brooks. I will clean this now.” Marjorie appeared from the kitchen with a broom and dustpan.

“Thank you,” Jade said, setting the frame on a nearby end table. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Marjorie smiled and went to work sweeping up the debris. Jade cringed as the glass shards crunched against the metal dustpan, echoing across the foyer that was eerily empty.

Too empty, Jade suddenly realized. She checked her watch. It was after five. The welcome reception was in full swing, but there was no sound of laughter or chatter from the lounge. No doors opening and closing. Jade scanned the array of unclaimed name tags on the table.

Too many.

“Did you greet any guests while I was in the office?” she asked Marjorie.

Marjorie emptied a dustpan full of dirt and glass into a trash bag. “Only one. Isabel Torres.”

“Huh.” Jade glanced out the rain-streaked windows. “The weather must be delaying people.”

“Yes.” Marjorie cinched the trash bag. “And the employee shuttle has not yet arrived.”

“What?” The knot in Jade’s chest constricted even more.

“But it is okay. They will come soon. And I will help you now, okay?”

“Help me?” Jade’s forehead crumpled.

The housekeeper gave her a strange look, as if she was completely underqualified for this job, which, of course, she was. “To set the table for dinner, no?”

“Right!” Jade snapped to attention, reaching for her binder. She scanned the unticked boxes of her task list. She should also check on the meal—had the chef returned from her supply run yet? She must have by now. And since Jade had arrived by Uber, she’d have to send someone with a car down the mountain to call the phone company about fixing the landline.

She added several more items to her list, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline. To-do lists gave her a sense of control. As if all she had to do to keep the universe from collapsing was tick a few boxes. “Yes, if you could set the table, that would be amazing.”

“Of course.” Marjorie grabbed the broken frame and disappeared into the dining room.

Jade closed her binder and made her way to the monastery’s small kitchen, her stomach tightening at the sight of the dormant burners and empty countertops. “Chef Melissa?” she called out, peering into the walk-in freezer, whose shelves were alarmingly bare.

Panic started to set in.

Why wasn’t the chef back yet? And where the hell was Jasmine? She was supposed to be helping! But Jade hadn’t seen her sister since this afternoon. So typical. It was the same when they were writing. As soon as something went wrong in the plot, Jasmine would suddenly get very busy with other things, leaving Jade to fix it herself.

She hurried down the staff corridor, checking the back office, the laundry room, even the utility room in the basement, but it was hopeless. This place was huge. Jasmine could be anywhere. They should have planned ahead for this, come up with some type of communication system in case things went wrong. Now her sister was off doing god knows what, god knows where. Why had Jasmine been so insistent on coming with her if she wasn’t going to be around when Jade actually needed her?

The thought sent a prickle of unease rippling through her. Jade thought she knew her sister better than anyone, but a lot had happened in the past few years. They’d had a huge falling-out and stopped speaking for a while after the last book they tried to write together didn’t end well. The truth was, Jade had no idea what Jasmine was capable of these days.

She returned to the foyer and glanced again at the unclaimed name tags, acid churning in her stomach. Surely, the rest of the guests would arrive soon.

As if on cue, the sound of tires screeching in the driveway pulled Jade’s eyes toward the door. She wasn’t sure why she held her breath as a pair of headlights flashed through the windows and a car door slammed in the distance. Maybe because she couldn’t afford for anything else to go wrong. Or maybe because she knew, even before the front doors opened, who would walk in from the rain. And yet, her throat still went dry when he did.

“Bloody bridge is blocked,” said Alastair, shaking water from his hair. “I can’t get out.”

A pinpoint of pain started to pulse in the center of Jade’s forehead. “W-w-what do you mean, you can’t get out?”

“I mean the road’s completely covered in rocks and debris. No way to cross the bridge. I’d need a tank to get through that mess.” Alastair stepped past her, suitcase in hand, and headed in the direction of the lounge. “I’ll try again in the morning. In the meantime, I’m going to need a room.”

Chapter Ten

“Thank goodness it’s suppertime. I’m hungry enough to eat the bark off a tree.” At 7:05 p.m., Evelyn swept into the dining room where Darius stood pressed against one of the rain-dappled windows, his phone thrust above his head in a futile search for a signal.

“I thought there wasn’t any cell service up here,” said Evelyn, sliding into an empty chair.

Darius slumped. “There’s not. I just thought I’d check.”

“Did you ever find the facilitator to ask about the phones?” She poured herself a glass of red wine from the bottle on the table and took a hearty sip.

“No.” Darius collapsed into a chair and filled his own glass. Despite dinner starting five minutes ago, he and Evelyn were the only people here. “Did you find your cat?”

“Not yet. But he’ll turn up. Dexter likes to explore, get the lay of the land, but he never stays away long.” Evelyn chased her wine with a jelly bean from her pocket. “Ooh. Jalapeño margarita!”

“That was impressive what you did earlier, by the way. Breaking up that fight between McCloud and his agent.” Darius sipped from his glass.

“Oh, it was nothing. I spent eighteen years breaking up silly fights between my two boys.” She shoveled in another jelly bean. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t give them both a good spanking!”

Darius choked on his wine.

Evelyn’s hand flew up to her mouth. “Oh my. I’m sorry. That was inappropriate, wasn’t it? My daughter-in-law is always telling me what I can and can’t say. ‘You just can’t go around talking like you used to, Evelyn,’ she says. ‘You might offend someone, even if you mean no offense.’ And trust me, I mean no offense. But honestly, what can you say these days?”

“Not much,” Darius agreed, trying for another sip.

Evelyn lowered her voice. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t actually spank Ian McCloud. But I am excited to meet him properly.”

“Well, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” Bennett strode into the room and took the chair next to Evelyn. “I don’t think he’ll be joining us tonight. He’s had a bit too much to drink.” He cast a sharp look at Darius as if it were his fault McCloud had drunk like a parched camel.

Bennett poured himself a glass of wine and took a long swig. “God. I’m so glad this catastrophe of a day is almost over.”

“Ah, so Bennett is still the drama queen, I see.”

A tall, radiant woman with sun-kissed strawberry blond hair glided through the door, wearing a slinky off-the-shoulder dress that draped her willowy frame.

Bennett took one look at her and groaned. “And you’re still the stalker, I see.”

“Wait.” Darius pointed a finger between them. “You two know each other?”

“And this one’s a detective!” said the woman, casting a flirtatious smile at Darius as she slid into the chair next to him and adjusted her dress. “I’m Simone Prescott. Nice to meet you.”

Bennett pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh god, it all makes sense now.”

“What’s that, Benny Boy?” Simone asked sweetly as she poured herself a glass of wine.

“McCloud couldn’t stop ranting about the bitch who had followed him here.” The way Bennett emphasized bitch made Darius squirm. This was the person who had sent McCloud running from the lounge like a hound on a blood trail?

Simone waved this away. “Oh, you know Ian. Always kidding around.”

“He looked terrified,” Bennett deadpanned.

“I’ll have you know,” Simone said a tad too forcefully, “that he invited me here personally.”

“I highly doubt that,” muttered Bennett. “After what happened in Seattle.”

“What happened in Seattle?” asked Evelyn, munching on a jelly bean.

Simone started to speak but Bennett cut her off. “I believe McCloud’s exact words were, ‘Get the fuck out of my room before I call security.’ ”

“He didn’t mean it,” said Simone defensively. “Clearly. Because he texted me last week, telling me he was speaking at this conference and would I please join as his guest.”

Darius stiffened. Weren’t those the very words McCloud had written to him?

I’ll be speaking at a mystery writers’ conference…Will you join as my guest?

“I don’t suppose you still have that text,” Bennett challenged.

Simone gave her hair a toss. “He told me to delete it for the sake of discretion.” She glanced around the room. “Where is the handsome devil anyway?”

“Passed out drunk.” Bennett flashed her a look of mock pity. “Sorry about the whiskey dick.”

Darius choked again on his wine as Evelyn’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

“Do you have to be so crude, Bennett?” Simone chided.

“It’s my specialty,” said Bennett with a dead-eyed smile.

“Can I just say, that dress,” Evelyn gushed to Simone. “It’s absolutely exquisite!”

“Aren’t you sweet?” Simone slid her hands down the fabric. The scarlet hue glowed against her strawberry blond hair, giving the whole ensemble a smoldering look. “My grandmother always used to say, ‘The dress doesn’t make the woman, the woman makes the dress.’ ” She tilted her head and smiled at Evelyn. “You remind me a bit of her, actually.”

“Do I?” She extended her hand. “Jelly bean? Try the red velvet. It’s delicious.”

Simone laughed. “Why not?” She reached for one but froze halfway, her gaze locked on the doorway, where someone had just entered. Her eyes darkened. “Oh, hello. And you are?”

“Isabel Torres,” said a quiet voice. “Sorry I’m late.”

Darius turned to see the woman who’d ninja-ed him in the hallway. That was Isabel Torres? He remembered seeing her name tag earlier. The familiarity tugged at him but he didn’t know why.

“Where is everyone?” Isabel asked, an adorable crease forming between her brows as she slid into the empty seat next to Darius. His smartwatch started to vibrate erratically.

“We don’t know,” said Evelyn. “Most of the guest rooms are still empty. I think the storm is causing some delays.”

Just then, lightning splintered across the darkened sky outside as a crack of thunder shook the chandeliers above their heads.

“Isabel Torres,” Simone repeated in a skeptical tone. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“Really?” Darius asked. “Because I swear I know your name from somewhere.”

“Maybe you slept with her too,” Simone muttered behind a sip of wine.

“Excuse me?” Isabel’s eyes flashed darkly.

“I’m sorry. Is that not why you and Ian came together? I just assumed you were fucking.”

For a moment, Isabel was speechless. Everyone stared at Simone in shock. Except Evelyn, who was munching on jelly beans, looking like she was enjoying her favorite midday soap.

Isabel’s face flushed. “That’s not—”

“Has anyone noticed all the quotes around the monastery?” Darius cut in, desperate to change the subject. He spun around to read the one directly behind him. “ ‘All the information you need can be given in dialogue.’ —Elmore Leonard. Very wise insight. Don’t you think?”

“What the fuck is your problem?” Isabel glared at Simone.

“I don’t have a problem,” Simone said sweetly, but her grip tightened around her wineglass.

“Simone’s problem,” came a new voice from the doorway, “is that she doesn’t understand why any woman wouldn’t gratefully welcome the advances of the handsome and powerful Ian McCloud.” Alastair Sinclair sauntered into the room, swirling wine around in his glass like a villain about to lay out the plans to his evil scheme. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”

“Shut up, Alastair,” Simone snapped.

“Neither can McCloud, for that matter,” Alastair went on, sliding comfortably into the chair at the head of the table, as if it had been reserved for him the whole time. “God forbid he turns that charming smile on someone who isn’t interested. Who quite clearly says no.”

Simone’s grip tightened again until Darius was convinced she’d break the glass. “Those were bogus allegations and you know it.”

“What allegations?” asked Evelyn.

“Oh, this is a good one!” Isabel announced loudly. She was turned around in her chair, studying the framed quote behind her. “ ‘The author’s job is to keep the reader and the characters on their toes. Always leave them guessing.’ ”

“That’s from The Bestseller Formula,” Darius pointed out. “It’s in the chapter about misdirection. Jenna Blake says if you want to divert the reader’s attention away from a topic, the easiest thing to do is switch points of view.”

“What am I going to do?” Jade whispered to herself as she huddled under an umbrella outside the monastery’s back door, staring at Marjorie’s faded blue sedan. The only car in the staff parking lot. Chef Melissa and her assistant hadn’t made it back. They were trapped on the other side of the blocked bridge. With the food.

“What are you freaking out about now?”

Jade startled and turned to see her sister walking up the path from the trees, soaking wet like she’d been out in the rain for hours.

“Where the hell have you been?” Jade hissed, hastily glancing over her shoulder for guests.

“It’s better if you don’t know,” Jasmine replied evasively, wringing out her long dark hair. Why did she always have to be so damn cryptic?

“Well, while you’ve been off on your little field trip, everything has fallen apart. A landslide knocked out the phone lines and blocked the bridge. And dinner started ten minutes ago, but there’s no chef and barely any food! We can’t feed these people!”

“Shh!” Jasmine warned, eyes darting around. “Do you want everyone to hear?”

Jade pressed a palm to her forehead, which was now throbbing with the threat of a migraine.

“Take a deep breath,” Jasmine instructed, and Jade did as she was told. She was not used to this swap in their relationship. Jasmine taking care of her for a change. “We just need to find something for dinner tonight. We’ll worry about the rest of the meals later.”

“I can’t cook,” Jade reminded her.

“Yes, but I can.” Her sister flashed her a confident smile.

Reluctantly, Jade made her way back inside and down the dim service hallway, still seething at her sister, who followed her with wet shoes squeaking on the tile floors.

The monastery’s kitchen was a small, windowless room that made Jade claustrophobic. It had been given some updates during the renovation—pendant lights, a professional gas cooktop, and a walk-in freezer—but it had originally been built to feed a group of monks who’d survived on nothing but stew and rice, not a horde of hungry writers expecting five-star accommodations.

She stepped into the small walk-in freezer and glanced around, relieved to find twenty-five slabs of uncooked steak she hadn’t noticed before stacked on a back shelf. “What about those?”

“We don’t have time to thaw them,” Jasmine decided. “I saw some fresh veggies in the fridge earlier. Grab those. We’ll make a nice salad and serve it with bread.”

“Salad and bread? For dinner?”

“It’s just for tonight,” Jasmine repeated.

Jade took another breath and gathered up boxes of tomatoes, cucumbers, and lettuce from the fridge. As she closed the door, she glimpsed the bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame she’d stashed on the back shelf. She’d had to shell out two hundred bucks, but it was Ian McCloud’s favorite champagne. It would be worth it. They just had to make sure nothing else went wrong tonight.

“Chop the tomatoes first,” Jasmine instructed, drying herself off with a kitchen towel.

Jade pulled a large knife from the magnetic strip on the wall, the steel flashing in the overhead lights. The professional blade felt heavy in her small hands.

“How am I supposed to tell everyone that we’re trapped here?” Jade whispered, eyeing the door to the dining room.

“Do you have to tell them?” Jasmine picked at her chipped black nail polish.

“Of course! They’re going to notice that no one else showed up.” Her forehead pulsed. “This is such a disaster.”

“No, it’s not. We’ll get through it. This isn’t the first time we’ve had to revise on the fly. Just think of everyone out there as characters in a novel.”

“But they’re not,” Jade shot back. “They’re real people.”

“There’s no difference. It’s all about controlling the narrative. You should know that.” Jasmine cut her a meaningful look that felt like a punch to the gut.

Jade snatched a tomato from the box. “I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.”

“Yes, you do,” Jasmine said with a teasing smile that softened Jade, despite herself. She’d never been able to say no to Jasmine. That was how they’d become writing partners.

“Being co-authors is like being co-conspirators in a plot,” Jasmine had once joked. “Get it, plot?”

Jade aligned the edge of the knife with the tomato’s taut ripe skin. The contacts in her eyes were starting to sting, making it harder to see. She blinked furiously and gritted her teeth. “I just wish we could have thought of another way.”

“There is no other way,” Jasmine said firmly. “You know that. There are too many people out there who would recognize my face.”

“I know,” Jade muttered, pressing down on the knife. The juicy flesh bulged under the weight of the sharp steel just as footsteps echoed from the dining room.

“Oh shit,” Jasmine whispered.

The door swung open. Jade jumped. The blade slipped.

“Can I help you serve the—” The housekeeper stopped in her tracks as she took in the nonexistent state of dinner. She glanced uneasily around the small kitchen. “The chef is not here? But I thought I heard you talking to her.”

Oh shit is right. Jade glanced at the back door, which was slightly ajar.

“No, I was just thinking aloud,” she said, smoothing her hair down over her ears.

Marjorie’s dark eyes widened. “Oh my, Ms. Brooks. Your finger!”

Jade yanked her hand from her hair and, for the first time, felt the searing heat as warm red liquid gushed from the tip of her thumb.

Chapter Eleven

Bennett took a long swig of his wine, trying to chase away the headache forming behind his eyes. He was hungry and exhausted. And the flickering chandelier over the dining room table wasn’t helping. Where the hell was dinner?

“I absolutely adore The Bestseller Formula,” Simone gushed. “It’s been so helpful in plotting my latest project.” She took a sip of wine. “I’m writing a noir.”

Bennett wanted to stab her with his fork. He still couldn’t believe she was here, seductively sipping wine and pronouncing noir like it was a French perfume she was hawking.

“And I just love what Jenna Blake says about symbolism,” she went on. “How it can be used to externally represent a character’s internal struggle.”

“Yes, like rain!” Darius gestured to the windows where the storm still buffeted against the glass. “Rain often symbolizes guilt or regret, a dark omen foreshadowing some type of reckoning.”

Lightning streaked across the sky, accompanied by another menacing clap of thunder.

“Really?” Isabel said. “I always thought rain symbolized a cleansing of things. Like a fresh start, washing away the sins of the past.”

“Ian often uses rain to convey isolation or loneliness.” Simone cut Isabel a defiant look. “Like in Vanishing Point, my favorite of his books. But so underrated. Too clever for the average reader, I suppose. Sometimes the public doesn’t fully appreciate his genius. That’s why Hollywood keeps ruining the movies. They have to dumb them down for the lowest common denominator.”

Bennett rolled his eyes. God, she was insufferable.

Simone Prescott: From catwalks to crime novels. An ex-model’s frantic grasp for relevance through ink. Her magnum opus? The fantasy that Ian McCloud will cast aside his queen and crown her instead.

“Still scribbling in your diary, Benny Boy?” Simone asked with a wink and another sip of wine.

Bennett stuffed the notebook and purple pen back into his pocket. “It’s not a diary.”

“Oh, right, your ‘narrative folio.’ ” Simone caressed the words like a sexy phone operator and turned to the others as if sharing a secret. “Bennett collects characters.”

“I don’t—” Bennett argued, but Simone was quick to interrupt.

“You see, he thinks he’s above us all, so he chronicles his profound musings about us mere mortals in that little notebook of his.”

“I’m studying human behavior,” Bennett clarified. “Plenty of famous writers recorded their observations in notebooks. Twain. Camus. Tolstoy.”

“Just be careful what you say around him,” Simone warned the others. “He might steal it and put it in a book.”

“At least I don’t have to rely on a formula to write a novel,” Bennett snapped.

“You’ve never even read Jenna Blake’s book,” Simone fired back.

“I don’t have to. She’s a wannabe hack who can’t write a novel herself so instead she wrote a book claiming to have some bestseller formula. You know what they say? When you can’t do, teach.”

“I’ve never heard of this book.” Evelyn popped in another jelly bean. “What is it?”

“It’s essentially a twelve-step blueprint for how to write a mystery novel,” said Isabel.

“You’ve read it?” Darius asked, looking delighted.

Isabel shrugged. “I skimmed it.”

“It’s absolute drivel,” Alastair opined from the head of the table. “Total bullshit.”

“I agree,” said Bennett. “There’s no formula for writing a bestseller.”

“Written a lot of bestsellers, have you?” Simone asked with a raise of her eyebrows that ignited a white-hot rage in Bennett’s chest.

“Writing is an art,” Bennett said through gritted teeth. “There are no rules in art.”

“Writing might be an art,” chimed in Darius. “But story structure has to have rules. It’s what makes the story work.”

“God, you sound just like her,” Bennett groaned. “Do you have a Jenna Blake fan channel too?”

Darius lowered his gaze, looking chastised. “No. I…I just know her work.”

“It’s too bad you’re so closed-minded, Bennett,” said Simone. “Her formula could really help you with your little…plotting problem.”

“I don’t have a plotting problem,” he snapped.

Simone flashed him a sly look over the rim of her wineglass. “That’s not what I heard.”

Bennett squeezed his fist around his butter knife.

“I think,” said Alastair with the self-importance of a literature professor about to state the theme of a novel to an amphitheater full of eager undergrads, “any writer who relies too heavily on rules is compensating for a deep-rooted fear of failure.”

“Have you ever written anything, Mr. Sinclair?” Isabel asked with more than a friendly challenge in her tone.

“Well, no.” Alastair balked. “But I’ve read plenty of terrible manuscripts. Writers who think they can just plug random details into a template and poof! Out pops a novel. Trust me, you need more than a formula to be a writer.”

“That’s pretty rich coming from someone who crushes writers’ dreams on a daily basis using a form letter, which, let’s face it, is just a fancy word for template,” said Isabel.

Bennett dropped his butter knife with a clank. The room fell silent, apart from Isabel’s labored breath as she glared at Alastair. The air hummed like a charged electrical current.

“My dear,” said Alastair with a hand on his heart, “you act like I’ve rejected you personally.”

“You have.”

“Ah. Well, you see, that’s the problem with you writers.” He turned to address the group as a whole. “You take everything so personally. You write one book and you think it’s your life’s work. It’s a work. And you’ll write many more.”

“Maybe the problem is you don’t take your work personally enough,” said Isabel, palpable emotion rolling off her in thick waves. “Instead you send out heartless rejections to people who have spent years pouring their souls into a novel only to have it treated like trash on the sidewalk.”

Girl with the Fire Tattoo: Volatile and intriguing, yet dangerous to typecast. A character with the power to seize the reins of the narrative and bend it to her will. Also something familiar about that tattoo—

“All right, all right, let’s calm down now.” Alastair patted the air as if it were Isabel’s head. “You’re clearly very young. You have plenty of time to launch a career. And lucky for you, I believe in second chances. So why don’t you send me the book again and I’ll take another look?”

“It’s too late,” said Isabel with the hint of a smile. “I already self-published it.”

Alastair bit back a smirk. “Well, good on you. Sold a few hundred copies, have you?”

“Actually, last time I checked it was two hundred and ninety-nine thousand. But that was before I lost cell service, so probably close to three hundred thousand by now.”

Alastair choked on his wine. “Well…how do you like that.”

“Wow,” crooned Evelyn. “I had no idea we were in the presence of a celebrity.”

“Me neither,” muttered Simone. “What’s the name of the book?”

Suddenly, the fire in Isabel’s eyes extinguished and she shrank into her chair. “Oh…I doubt you’ve heard of it.”

Isabel tried to calm her pounding heart with several deep breaths. She should not have done that. She should have just kept her mouth shut. But she simply couldn’t sit there any longer, listening to that patronizing, self-important, pretentious douchebag of an agent soliloquize like a drunk Shakespeare character.

She had to keep her damn temper in check. She couldn’t afford to attract any unnecessary attention to herself. Especially after—

feet pounding—angry breaths fogging up the air—the cottage—the door—“Stop! I’m calling the police!”—

Isabel shook the splintered memories from her mind and focused back on the conversation, which fortunately had moved past the topic of her book.

“Well,” said Evelyn, “I think I can learn a lot from y’all. And Mr. McCloud. Once he’s sobered up, of course. He’s the reason I’m here, you know?”

“Me too,” said Darius with a kind smile. “I’ve been a longtime fan of his books.”

“Yes, I hear they’re pretty good.” Evelyn chewed on another jelly bean. “I tried to write a novel once, when my husband was still alive, God rest his soul. It didn’t go very well. I quit writing completely until I got the invitation to come to this conference.”

Isabel poured herself a glass of wine and swallowed half of it in one gulp. Not the smartest decision, she realized, but it was the only way she was going to get through this night. Between her slipup just now, Simone’s verbal attack, and Bennett’s furtive glances, like he was trying to place her, she was already becoming too memorable. Not to mention Darius’s little schoolboy crush. The boy really wore his heart on his sleeve, didn’t he? She had to admit he was cute—in a sort of awkward, golden-retriever-puppy kind of way—but definitely not her type. Not that she was in any position to brag about her type lately.

There are bad people in this world, mija.

Evelyn glanced at her watch. “Goodness gracious. It’s nearly half past seven.”

“And still no dinner,” Bennett grumbled.

“I wonder what’s taking so long,” said Darius, peering at the kitchen door.

Evelyn frowned at the empty chairs. “I do hope the other guests make it soon.”

“The other guests?” Alastair barked out a laugh as he topped off his wineglass until it was nearly overflowing. “You mean she hasn’t told you yet?”

“Told us what?” asked Bennett, his voice tight.

“There’s no one else coming,” said Alastair. “The bridge across the valley is completely blocked with rubble. Why do you think I’m still here? For my bloody health?”

“Blocked?” repeated Isabel. “So if they can’t get in…”

“We can’t get out,” Bennett finished grimly.

Evelyn chuckled. “It’s a writer’s block. Get it?”

No one laughed.

Darius leapt out of his chair and ran to the patio doors, staring out into the darkness as if he could possibly see the road from here. “Are you saying we’re…trapped here?”

CRASH!

Isabel spun toward the kitchen door where Jade stood frozen, a streak of blood slashing through her white-blond hair. At her feet, a serving tray lay overturned, with porcelain shards and lettuce scattered violently across the floor.

I shouldn’t have to warn you that people lie. They tell you the things they want you to know and hide the things they don’t.

As a writer, I understand this well. In fact, I’ve come to depend on it. Characters are not to be trusted. Everything they say is either a piece of the truth or a piece of the lie.

But unreliable narrators are not just a popular trope in fiction. They’re a universal truth of life. That’s why authors use them.

People lie. It’s just human nature.

But the thing you might not realize—the thing I’ve had to learn the hard way—is that the lie is often more revealing than the truth.

Chapter Twelve

Darius emerged from the shower just as his watch beeped with his 9:45 p.m. bedtime alarm.

He was so grateful this day was finally over. After that awkward dinner of tense conversation and hastily remade salads, he’d spent the rest of the night obsessively searching the grounds for a cell signal, but there wasn’t even a sliver of a bar. He was exhausted and ready for a full night’s sleep. God, did he need one.

He switched on his sound machine, climbed under the covers, and pulled on his sleep mask. As darkness enveloped him, he tried to cling to what Jade had said earlier, after confirming that the storm had blocked the road and taken out the phone lines.

“I’m not worried. There are a lot of people on the other side of that bridge trying to get to us. They would have contacted highway patrol when they found the road blocked. I’m sure everything will be resolved by tomorrow.”

He wanted to believe her, but too many other strange details nagged at him.

Isabel’s name and tattoo, familiar yet frustratingly out of reach. The animosity between Bennett and Simone. And those unclaimed name tags: Jesper Hollingsworth, Molly Kent, Beatrice Winters. As a BookTuber, Darius knew the mystery-writing scene well, but he didn’t recognize any of those names. In fact, they had an almost fictional quality about them, as if plucked from a character generator website. Something wasn’t adding up.

Just get some rest, he told himself, remembering the mantra his therapist had drilled into him. Things tend to make more sense after a good night’s sleep.

Dr. Chen had been his mother’s idea. An attempt to “get his life back on track” after the “unfortunate incident” ten years ago. Of course his mother would never talk to a therapist herself. That might expose too many of her own control issues, and it was easier to just put those on her son.

You don’t need to drop AP physics, Darius. You just need to be more efficient with your time.

You don’t need a new bike, Darius. You need to raise your grade in math.

A creative writing class will only distract you from your priorities, Darius. Trust me, the world doesn’t need any more starving artists.

It didn’t take a degree in psychology to connect the dots between an overcontrolling mother with impossible standards and an anxious only child who never felt like he measured up.

And yet, that’s exactly what it took: Dr. Chen’s psychology degree.

He closed his eyes and let the whirring sound of the sleep machine blend into the background. The key was not to try to fall asleep, but to let sleep come if it wants. But the moment it started to take hold, Darius was roused by a faint rustling sound—like a creature skittering across the floor. He shot up, yanking off his sleep mask and groping for his glasses and the lamp switch. When his vision finally focused, he saw it.

Lying on the floor, just inches from the doorway. A square envelope with the familiar Pen Ultimate Writers logo in the corner.

Darius scrambled out of bed and tore it open, fumbling to pull out the matching card on which Ian McCloud had written in his strong, confident handwriting:

Darius, please forgive my behavior today. Alastair’s betrayal has destroyed me. I barely recognize myself. But there’s more to it than that. The truth is I’m struggling with a new book, unlike anything I’ve ever written. No one knows I’m writing it. It contains dark truths that are going to make a lot of people very angry. But I can’t shoulder the burden any longer. The truth must come out. You understand my writing better than anyone. That’s why I need your help. I’m ready to get to work if you are. Room 307. —IM

Darius had barely finished reading before he was tripping over his feet to pull on his pants. He darted around the room, gathering notebooks and pens, his dog-eared copy of The Bestseller Formula, and his battered old laptop—praying it would hold a charge for more than ten minutes.

His watch sounded again, reminding him that he was supposed to be in bed. You know what happens when you don’t get enough sleep, it warned with every beep. But this was an opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to work with his idol. He wasn’t going to pass that up for a little extra sleep.

Sleep was not on Simone’s agenda for the night. She returned to her room—thankfully someone had disposed of the morbid welcome gift outside her door—and immediately peeled off her dress. In her suitcase was the package that had arrived at her apartment only yesterday. She tore it open and dumped the black lacy contents onto the bed. She hadn’t even had a chance to try it on before jumping on a plane to San Francisco, but she wasn’t worried about the fit. She’d spent fifteen years as a model; things looked good on her regardless of whether they were too big or too small.

She’d had to pay a fortune for the express shipping, but after the text message she’d received from Ian last week, it was worth every penny.

My love, I’m so sorry about what happened in Seattle. I overreacted, like always. I really want this to work. I miss you. I need you. You’re the only good thing in my life. I’m ready to be with you…and only you. I’ll be speaking at a mystery writers’ conference in California next weekend. Will you join as my guest?

Oh, how she’d basked in the warm glow of those words. He’d never told her he needed her before. It was always want. I want you on the floor, on the chair, in the shower. Never need. As a writer, Simone understood the difference between wants and needs and it was significant.

That text message proved that he’d changed. Her letter to him must have worked. She’d had to handwrite it like some desperate, lovesick heroine in an Austen novel because after he kicked her out of his hotel room in Seattle, all her texts and emails had gone unanswered. But it must be true what they say. Handwritten letters mean more, because hers had finally convinced him that they were meant to be together.

Simone Prescott was going to get her fairy-tale ending, after all.

Everyone knows the story never ends with the hero staying with his fragile, fickle-hearted wife. Megan didn’t care about Ian. She’d fled to France right when he needed her most, leaving him to deal with the fame and publicity and those Dying Violet stalker freaks all on his own. She couldn’t handle the pressure of being with a powerful, successful man like Ian McCloud.

But Simone could. She would be the strong, resilient partner Ian deserved. She wouldn’t shy away from his fame; she’d bask in it. They’d be the publishing industry’s sexiest couple, attending all the ritzy parties and prestigious book launches. Simone would stand by his side. In public. For all to see and admire and envy. No longer his dirty little secret locked behind a closed door with a Do Not Disturb sign.

She shimmied into the black lace corset and adjusted her breasts in the mirror. Her lips were adequately scarlet but she still applied another coat. Ian always loved how she left her mark on him. “I leave it on for as long as I can,” he’d once told her, after a perfect night in Denver on his book tour for Remains of the Dark. “To remember how it felt to have your lips there.” Then, the next morning, she’d watched him step into the shower and wash it all away, the red pigment swirling down the drain like spilled blood. She watched herself be erased.

The broken window banged open, letting in a cold, wet draft that made Simone shiver in her flimsy lingerie. She grabbed the hotel robe from the closet and pulled it on, just as something rustled across the hardwood floor.

Simone jumped, expecting another four-legged intruder, but instead she saw a square white envelope emblazoned with the Pen Ultimate Writers logo. She darted to the door and peered into the hallway. It was empty. And eerily quiet. Curiously, she opened the envelope and shook out the contents. A small silver flash drive fell into her palm.

A wicked grin spread across her face. That sly devil. Sending her a little something to get her in the mood?

She opened her laptop and plugged in the drive, already feeling the tingle spread between her legs. What would it be? A little preview of what was to come? Perhaps a special request? Her smile widened. It wouldn’t be the first time Ian sent her a video of something new he wanted to try. Something he could never, in a million years, ask his prudish wife to do.

The drive loaded, revealing a single file inside.

Licking her lips, Simone clicked on it. And the smile fell right off her face.

Bennett huddled under the belfry, trying to stay dry as the rain lashed against the weathered stone of the north bell tower. Darkness shrouded the monastery grounds far below, but neither the rain nor the gloom could dampen his spirits now. He’d found the Wi-Fi signal again.

His phone had first alerted him to it after dinner, while he was having a smoke in the courtyard. The connection was weak on the ground floor, but Bennett had scoured the monastery, tracking the strongest signal up here.

Heart palpitating, he hunched over his phone and reopened the email.

$250,000. If I were you, I’d take it and run.

But Bennett knew how this game worked. He’d watched his boss play it for more than a decade. If there was anything he’d learned from Ian McCloud it was that everything was negotiable. With cold, numb fingers, he hastily tapped out a reply.

Not enough.

Just as he hit send, a sharp creak echoed behind him. Bennett spun around, squinting into the darkness. He swore he saw a flash of movement. Something darting through the shadows. But when he raised his phone and swept the flashlight across the weathered stone, it revealed nothing. Probably just debris from the storm.

Bennett descended the spiral staircase to the fourth floor with a buoyancy in his step, the promise of freedom lifting him up. He practically floated through the twisting attic corridors with their low ceilings and shrine-like niches recessed into the walls. He bounded down the main staircase to the third floor and traversed the south wing to his room.

He paused in front of his door, curiously eyeing the room service cart parked outside his boss’s room across the hall. It was draped in a white tablecloth and held two crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne chilling on ice. Bennett recognized the label.

La Grande Dame: McCloud’s nightly ritual of drowning his delicate ego in a river of opulence. A tired cliché, too painfully obvious for even the most unimaginative plot.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Bennett hurried into his room and closed the door. Peering through the peephole, he saw Simone striding up to room 307, wearing one of the hotel’s terry cloth robes. Her nostrils flared, her eyes blazed, and her lips—blood red, like a vampire who’d just devoured her latest meal—were twisted into a scowl. She reached for the door handle and, finding it unlocked, barged inside.

A moment later, someone started yelling.

Here we go again, Bennett thought with a groan. He did not have the energy for another Simone Prescott–Ian McCloud drama. Their relationship was like a hop-on-hop-off tour bus. But after that fight in Seattle last month, Bennett swore it was finally over. Hell, the guests staying three floors down swore it was over.

At least this time, Bennett was not in an adjoining room to overhear whatever came next.

Stepping away from the door, his shoe kicked at something on the ground, sending it skittering across the hardwood floor. He flicked on the light and his chest tightened.

It was an envelope, addressed to Bennett in McCloud’s sharp, assertive handwriting.

He nearly tossed it in the trash. Whatever the bastard wanted—a late-night snack, an emptying of his puke bucket—he could get it himself. But Bennett knew that as close as he was to being free, it wasn’t over yet. With a weary sigh, he ripped open the envelope, anger already boiling inside him. But as he yanked out the card and read the words scrawled inside, his blood turned to ice.

Thirty minutes later, every light in the building flickered out, plunging the monastery into darkness.

Nothing amps up the tension of a murder like a good power outage.

People do shameful things in the dark.

Chapter Thirteen

By seven the next morning, the monastery grounds looked like a hurricane had struck. Jade stood outside, surveying the damage. The rain had mercifully stopped overnight, and the blue sky dappled with clouds promised warmth. The scene was so peaceful, she could almost believe yesterday was a dream. If not for the debris.

Tree branches, pine needles, and twigs littered the patio and the landscaped lawn below, triggering anxiety like a vise around Jade’s lungs. It would take hours to clear away this mess. But for now, she only needed to clear the patio for breakfast. She took a deep breath and grabbed a broom from the utility shed.

With Marjorie dispatched to clean the hot springs, Jade started sweeping and tossing large branches over the retaining wall. Her fitted navy suit made each movement labored and her butchered thumb still throbbed under the thick bandage.

As of this morning, the phone lines and power were still out, which meant no hot water, and her toilet had barely flushed. But Jasmine had reminded her not to get caught up in the things they couldn’t control and focus on the things they could. There was still a conference to facilitate.

The hardest part would be figuring out how to make coffee without power. The thought of telling a bunch of writers there was no caffeine was the scariest thing Jade could imagine happening at a writing conference.

But that was before she heard the scream.

At first, Isabel thought it was her who was screaming.

She’d been dreaming of the cottage again. The one with the red door that was always locked. In her dreams, it called out to her like a beacon in the dark. Amber light bleeding through the window, frantic breaths fogging up the glass. Something terrible was inside. Something she did.

She woke up gasping for air, certain she’d find herself, once again, covered in blood.

matted into her hair—crusted onto her skin—soaked into her clothes—

The sheets were damp from the sweat of her sleepless night, but clean. She checked the nightstand drawer. The pharmacy bag was still tucked inside. She relaxed against the pillows, only to bolt upright a second later when she heard the scream again.

It sounded like a woman being strangled. And it was coming from outside.

Isabel threw on her clothes and barreled down the back service stairs. She cut through the dining room and burst onto the patio, which looked like it was being set for breakfast. The crisp morning air smelled faintly of rain and pine needles.

Following the narrow walkway through the forest and into the clearing, she noticed the screaming had stopped, faded into a panicked whimper. Through the trees, she saw two figures standing side by side, staring out at the hot springs.

Isabel ducked into the gazebo and struggled to peer through the slats until finally the full scene came into view. The pool, set against the breathtaking backdrop of the mountainside, looked nearly the same as it had yesterday, apart from more twigs and leaves scattered across the surface.

And the body floating face down in the water.

Jade expected herself to fall apart, just as Marjorie was doing now, sobbing uncontrollably into her hands. But as Jade stood at the edge of the hot springs and gazed out at the naked body floating peacefully through pockets of steam, she felt…

Nothing.

Marjorie let out an anguished cry before collapsing onto a nearby pool lounger. It was one of the only ones that hadn’t been overturned by the storm.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Jade sat beside her and rubbed her back.

Marjorie sniffled, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her uniform. “I came down to clean the pool, like you asked me to. I went to the shed to get the…What is the word in English?” She pointed to the pole lying on the ground, where it had obviously been dropped in shock.

“The skimmer,” Jade prompted.

“Yes, the skimmer. I brought it here. And then I saw…” The sobs were making her clipped accent more pronounced, harder to understand. “I thought it was an animal who fell in, but then…”

“Marjorie,” Jade said, trying to infuse emotion into her voice, “I think you should go to your room and lie down. You’ve had a big shock and you need to rest. I will take care of this.”

The housekeeper shook her head, fear flashing in her dark eyes. “No. I can’t, you can’t…”

“I’ll be fine.” Jade wasn’t sure if it was true, but she couldn’t worry about that now. Everything on her to-do list faded into the background, leaving behind one giant morbid task.

Get the body out of the water before anyone else sees it.

“Please.” Jade gave Marjorie a gentle push to get her on her feet and another to get her on her way. “Go. I’ll deal with this.”

She watched the housekeeper scurry up the path toward the monastery, whimpering quietly into her hands. Then Jade turned back to the hot springs.

Facilitator, from the Latin root facilis, meaning “easy to do.”

Revulsion rolling in her gut, she bent to pick up the skimmer, just as footsteps pounded on the cobblestones behind her. The skimmer clattered to the ground.

“Holy fuck! Is that…” Bennett walked numbly to the hot springs where his reflection danced on the pool’s rippling surface, distorting his shocked face into something grotesque.

“Yes,” Jade answered the unfinished question. “It’s Ian McCloud.”

There’s no better feeling in the world than watching your little seed of an idea—your spark of inspiration—blossom into something real. Unfolding before your very eyes just as you imagined it.

I told you there would be a body. When I make a promise to you, I will always deliver on it. I would never want to betray your trust.

So, did you correctly predict who would die?

Maybe you did. Maybe you even think you know why Ian McCloud had to go, but I assure you, you don’t know the half of it. There is much more to reveal. More clues to uncover. More twists to turn.

And to ensure everything unfolds exactly the way I planned it, I’m going to need some help. Fortunately, I have someone in mind.

Step 3

“Summoning the Sleuth”

Chapter Fourteen

Darius had been packing his things to leave when he heard the scream through his balcony window. A mere fifteen minutes earlier, he’d decided to call it quits. The moment the bridge reopened, he would find a way out of here.

He’d slept horribly. Between the late night, the alcohol, and his trusty sound machine being rendered useless by the blackout, his sleep score was worse than he’d ever seen it. Not to mention, every time he shut his eyes, he could hear Simone and McCloud arguing.

What the fuck are you doing here? Following me to this place? Sneaking into my room? Do you realize how creepy that is? You’re just as bad as the rest of those fucking stalkers.

Are you so drunk that you don’t even remember? You invited me here! You sent me a text!

Darius had never made it to room 307. He’d heard the voices from down the hall, muffled through McCloud’s closed door, and lingered in the shadows for several minutes, unsure what to do. Eventually Simone stormed out, and Darius debated whether to knock. But then the power went out, sending him scurrying back to his room, like a child afraid of the dark. But this time, it wasn’t the dark that scared him.

Ian McCloud had been an idol to Darius, an inspiration, and for the last few years, a pen pal and a mentor. Darius had confided in him about things he rarely told anyone. But now Darius knew the truth: That man was nothing like the upstanding detective of his novels. He was a drunk, angry womanizer. This is why you should never meet your idols. You’re guaranteed to be disappointed. And Darius wished he’d never come.

But when the scream crashed through his open window, somehow all that faded into the background. Despite the familiar fear and anxiety coursing through his veins, there was suddenly something else present. Something primal, almost instinctual, and far more potent.

Darius dropped his copy of The Bestseller Formula, which he’d been attempting to shove into his backpack, and ran. Down the stairs, out the dining room doors, all the way down the landscaped path. Somehow he knew exactly where to go. Like some kind of sixth sense, his brain had triangulated the coordinates of the scream and sent the directions to his feet in one fluid motion. As strange as it seemed, he felt like he’d been activated.

When he reached the clearing in the trees, he stopped and surveyed the scene with a slow, methodical sweep of his gaze, cataloging every detail like a scientist. No, like a detective.

A large pool, surrounded by overturned chairs and upended tables.

The infinity edge, silent and still without power, reduced to a simple concrete rim.

Giant branches and debris sprawled across the grass like discarded weapons on a medieval battlefield.

A terry cloth robe draped across one of the few surviving lounge chairs.

A pair of slippers on the ground beneath it, possibly cashmere.

Two figures standing motionless at the edge of the pool—Jade and Bennett—shrouded in rising steam.

A naked man floating face down in the water, presumably dead.

Dead.

The word pulled Darius back to his body. Back to himself. And then, he too was screaming.

The sound of Darius’s screams was drowned out by a single objective pulsing through Bennett’s mind.

“We need to get him out of there,” he said, the calmness in his voice surprising him.

“I agree,” said Jade.

Bennett tore his gaze from his boss’s naked body and glanced around the pool. “Is there something I can drag him out with?” His stomach rolled at the thought, but his voice stayed even.

Jade pointed numbly toward a pool skimmer behind her and Bennett went to grab it.

“Stop!” Darius darted in front of him, his arms outstretched. “Don’t move.”

It was like some switch had been flipped inside the kid. One moment he was a hyperventilating mess. Now he looked like some type of maniacal crossing guard.

“Don’t do anything,” said Darius. “Don’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.”

“Darius,” Jade said in a calm yet warning tone, “I think you’re overreacting. This was clearly an accident.”

“An accident?” Darius whirled on her, eyes flashing with suspicion. “How do you know?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Bennett cut in. “He drowned.”

“That pool doesn’t look more than four feet deep,” Darius challenged.

“People can drown in two inches of water,” Bennett said. “You’re a mystery writer. You should know that.”

Jade pressed her fingertips into her temple. “We can’t have a dead body floating in the hot springs.”

“Dead body?” Alastair stepped into the clearing, followed shortly after by Evelyn, who looked like she was dressed for a morning hike in lime-green spandex and a matching fleece.

“Oh my.” Evelyn’s gaze roved over McCloud’s bare buttocks. “Is that our keynote speaker?”

“What?” cried another voice. “Where? What happened?” Simone crashed into the clearing and skidded to a halt at the pool’s edge, her green eyes blinking rapidly as she took in the scene. Then she let out a wail that sounded both primal and rehearsed—“Ian!”—and dove into the water.

“No!” Darius didn’t hesitate. He plunged into the pool, the steaming hot water a shock against the crisp morning air. Thrashing forward, he wrapped his arms around Simone’s torso just as her fingertips grazed the body.

“Let go of me!” she screamed, flailing and reaching for McCloud. “My darling! My love!”

Darius barely recognized himself as he held her back. Who was this person? “You can’t touch him,” he warned. “We can’t disturb the scene.”

“A bit too late for that,” Alastair grumbled.

Simone stopped struggling and glared up at the agent, standing just above her at the edge of the pool. “You don’t look very torn up about this!”

Alastair sneered. “Excuse me for not weeping over the man who tried to ruin my career.”

“You deserved it, you asshole!” Simone roared, breaking free from Darius’s grasp. She lunged for Alastair’s feet, the commotion sending McCloud’s body bobbing across the surface of the water like a piece of driftwood in a rolling sea.

Alastair danced out of reach. “Whoa, whoa. Calm down.”

“Do not tell me to calm down!” she snapped. She turned back toward the body, only to find Darius blocking her path. “My lover is dead!”

“Can you please not call him your lover?” Bennett said with a grimace.

Simone turned her glare on him. “I don’t see you looking very upset either.”

“I’m in shock,” Bennett said without a hint of emotion.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” muttered Simone.

“Everyone processes their grief differently, dear,” said Evelyn.

“Please!” Darius cried as he attempted to corral Simone out of the pool and simultaneously shoo everyone else away from the edge. It was like trying to herd a flock of unruly sheep. He longed for a real-life Marlow Griggs to appear and take control of the situation. A hardened bourbon-swilling detective who’d step out from the bushes with his cryptic smirk and yell, “Bullseye!” the way he always did when he uncovered a crucial piece of the mystery. “We need to clear the area.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up!” Bennett reeled on him. “You’ve read too many Ian McCloud novels. This isn’t a crime scene. It was an accident. Just as Jade said.” He looked to the facilitator.

“Yes, an accident,” she agreed after a flicker of hesitation.

“And what if it wasn’t?” Darius challenged. He’d finally managed to get Simone and himself out of the pool and was shivering in his wet clothes. “Look around you!” He gestured to one of the nearby lounge chairs, which lay on its side. “There was clearly some kind of altercation here.”

“Or there was a storm,” said Bennett impatiently.

Darius peered out at the chaos—furniture overturned, glass tabletops shattered, tree branches the size of primitive clubs sprawled across the lawn. A low vibration pulsed in his bones, like a warning signal. Something had happened here. Something unspeakable.

“Well, I don’t think we should leave him in there.” Jade gestured toward the naked body.

“I’d have to agree,” said Evelyn, her lips tugged into a frown. “It’s a rather unpleasant sight.”

“Exactly,” said Bennett, marching over to the pool skimmer and snatching it up.

“You’re going to fish him out with that?” Simone looked queasily between Bennett and the body, which had bobbed precariously toward what was once the infinity edge.

“No, I’m going to push him closer to the stairs so I can reach him.” Bennett extended the telescoping pole.

“No!” Darius positioned himself in front of Bennett. “We have to keep everything exactly as it was for when the police arrive.”

“The police?” Jade looked alarmed.

“Yes!” said Darius, exasperated. Why was he the only one taking this seriously? “There’s a dead body floating in a pool surrounded by potential murder weapons. We have to call the police.”

“With what?” Alastair scoffed. “A tin can on a string?”

Panic clawed at Darius’s chest. He’d forgotten about the landslide. He looked to Jade, silently asking the question with pleading eyes.

She shook her head. “The phones are still out. And the power.”

He felt his burst of resolve waning, the reality and impossibility of the situation strangling the life out of it.

“What about the road?” Bennett asked. “Is it still blocked?”

“I don’t know,” Jade replied.

“Well, we can’t just let him bob around in there until it’s cleared,” said Bennett. “Who knows how long that will take. The hot water will eat away at him. We have to get him out.”

Something began to buzz in Darius’s head. A faint droning alarm that was getting louder by the second. No phone lines. No power. No way out. It was the perfect opportunity.

I’m struggling with a new book, unlike anything else I’ve written…It contains dark truths that are going to make a lot of people very angry.

Which people? How angry? Angry enough to kill?

“If we get him out of the water, we can check for signs of injury.”

The voice was so quiet, at first Darius thought he’d imagined it. They all turned to find Isabel standing beside the pool, staring numbly at the body. How long had she been there?

“Bullet wounds. Stab wounds. Ligature marks.” Her words had no inflection, sending a chill down Darius’s spine. But she was right. If there was any way to prove that McCloud had been murdered, they’d have to examine the body. He’d have to examine the body.

The thought sent a wave of nausea rolling through him, overshadowed quickly by a wave of determination. If they couldn’t contact the police, if there was no Marlow Griggs to summon and save the day, then Darius had no choice but to become him.

He nodded to Bennett. “You push him toward the stairs. Alastair, you catch him.”

Chapter Fifteen

Jade wanted to look away, but she forced herself to watch as Bennett gave the skimmer a hefty push and Ian McCloud floated effortlessly toward the stairs, like he was relaxing on a pool raft on a summer day.

Alastair was already positioned on the steps, trousers soaked to his knees, ready to catch him. Bennett dropped the pole and darted around the pool to help pull his dead boss from the water. Both men grunted from the effort until finally McCloud was lying face up on the pavement, his full nakedness on display.

“Well, that’s a sight you don’t see every day,” said Evelyn as seven people leaned in at once to examine the body like a team of med students gathered around a research cadaver.

Jade pushed her glasses up her nose and roved her gaze over the man’s wrinkled, eely skin, releasing her breath when Bennett said, “See? No injuries. No stab wounds. No bullet holes. No blood. Not even any bruises to imply he was held underwater.”

“You sure know a lot of ways to kill someone,” Darius remarked.

“I work for a crime writer,” spat Bennett.

“Worked,” Darius corrected. “And you didn’t seem very happy about it.”

Bennett threw up his hands. “This is ridiculous. It was clearly an accident.”

“You keep saying that,” said Darius, but he didn’t look convinced. He was on his hands and knees, tilting his head at an awkward angle to peer at the underside of McCloud’s chin.

“Do you think he could have been strangled?” Isabel asked, crouching beside him.

He cut her a quick glance. “Maybe. The extended time in the water could have faded any ligature marks. But I don’t see any petechiae either.”

“Petech—What?” asked Isabel.

“Tiny red, purple, or brown spots on the skin. The result of pressure applied to the neck during manual strangulation. McCloud wrote about it in Season of Dying Violets. It’s how the serial killer murdered his victims.”

“He wasn’t strangled,” said Bennett with a groan. “He was drunk off his face. He probably stumbled down here for a midnight dip, fell asleep, and drowned himself.”

“Idiot,” Alastair muttered under his breath.

“That does seem like the more plausible explanation,” Evelyn said, sounding a tad disappointed.

“Wait a minute, what’s that?” Darius crouched to study a spot above McCloud’s right ear. He grabbed a nearby stick and used it to tilt the head to the side and push away the mop of wet hair.

Isabel sucked in a breath.

“No signs of injury, you say?” Darius glared at Bennett with an almost smug expression.

“What is it?” Bennett leaned in and then recoiled.

“Blunt force trauma,” said Darius, enunciating every syllable.

Jade braved a look and immediately regretted it. The open gash on the side of McCloud’s head was clean but swollen, almost pruny from being in the water. The skin around it was gray and macerated, like old bloated meat.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” said Simone, covering her mouth.

“He could have done that to himself,” said Bennett, looking unimpressed. “Slipped, hit his head, fell into the pool, and then drowned.”

“Or,” said Darius forcefully, “someone could have done it to him.” He gestured around at the debris. “With their choice of weapon.”

“Where is the blood, though?” asked Isabel, thoughtfully gazing out at the hot springs, which, Jade remarked, looked crystal clear apart from the leaves and twigs floating on the surface. “A wound like that bleeds.”

“It could have dispersed in the water,” said Evelyn. “If he was in there long enough.”

Darius’s eyes roved the body, pausing on McCloud’s left hand. “And where is his wedding ring? He was wearing it yesterday. I saw it in the lounge.”

Everyone gathered around to peer at the empty finger. Then in unison, six heads swiveled toward Simone.

She took a step back. “What? You think I took it? Why would I do that?”

“You tell me,” said Bennett in a low voice.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s probably in his room. He might have taken it off before he came to the hot springs so he wouldn’t lose it.”

“That makes sense,” said Evelyn, staring a bit too long at the naked body sprawled on the pavement.

“For Christ’s sake! Can we cover him up already?” Simone cried.

“Yes, please.” Alastair shot a disdainful look at his former client. “This is highly unappetizing.”

Jade scanned the pool area for something to drape over the body and spotted one of the monastery’s terry cloth robes on a nearby lounger. “That must be what he wore down here,” she said, darting over to the chair, where she noticed a brass room key on the ground.

As Jade slipped the key into the pocket of her blazer and scooped up the robe, she caught sight of a bright red lipstick stain on the collar. She’d seen only one person in this monastery wearing that shade.

“Give it to me.” Simone snatched the garment from Jade. “He was my lover. I should be the one to cover him up.”

Grateful to be relieved of the job, Jade stepped back as Simone carefully spread the robe over McCloud’s body before collapsing over him in an explosion of tears and quiet whimpers. Bennett tried to pull her back but she shooed him away. “I just…I need to say goodbye.” With a sob, she pushed back a strand of the author’s dark wet hair and brought her lips to his ear.

“This is exactly what you deserve, you piece of shit,” Simone whispered to her dead lover as she slipped her hand into the pocket of the robe. “You thought you could get away with fucking me over? Think again.”

The pocket was empty.

Simone swore under her breath. Was this not the same robe she’d worn to his room last night? It had to be. It had her lipstick stain on the collar. So where was the damn flash drive?

She let out another theatrical sob and kissed Ian’s cheek, shuddering at the touch of his cold, clammy skin.

“Great,” muttered Darius. “Now your DNA will be all over the body.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t already?” muttered Alastair.

“Hey!” Simone leapt up and glared at the agent. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re implying. I loved him. If anyone had reason to kill him, it’s you. You stole two million dollars from him. You’re a cheat and a liar. He ruined your career, you said so yourself. That’s motive.”

Alastair guffawed. “My dear, if motive is what you’re after, then take a look in the mirror. I can’t be the only one here who heard your fight last night.”

“That means nothing.” Simone crossed her arms. “We fight all the time. Bennett knows that. We always make up. Always.”

“Oh, wake up!” Alastair bellowed. “McCloud was the cheat and the liar. He lied to you. He lied to Megan. He lied to all those women he seduced into his bed with empty promises. So I’d be careful about believing anything he told you. And I certainly didn’t kill him.”

“Well, someone here killed him!” said Darius.

Jade pressed two fingertips into her temples. “Please stop saying that.”

“It’s a murder mystery!” said Evelyn with an epiphanic gasp. “At a mystery writing conference! Isn’t that delightfully meta?” She peered around at the others. “Did I use that right?”

Everyone ignored her.

“We need to search the entire area,” said Darius.

Bennett rolled his eyes. “Enough with the detective crap!”

“Look for evidence,” Darius went on, undeterred. “Traces of blood.”

“You mean like that?” said Alastair, his face draining of color as he extended a shaky finger toward a large decorative boulder that sat near the edge of the pool. Simone followed his gaze to the unmistakable crimson streak smeared across the travertine pool deck.

“Aha!” Darius was on the move in an instant, the rest of the group close behind. “A blood trail leading from the rock to the hot springs!”

“Which proves he hit his head on the rock and stumbled into the pool,” said Bennett irritably.

“Unless…” Darius was at the boulder now, his features twisted in confusion as he bent to examine the evidence. “Huh. That’s weird. The trail doesn’t appear to lead to the pool, but away from it. I wonder how—”

“You cheeky little devil!” cried Evelyn, startling everyone. She had made her way around the large rock and now stood with hands on hips, glaring at something on the ground. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, mister!”

They all rushed toward her to find a scruffy gray cat with piercing green eyes, proudly displaying the source of the blood—a large black bird that lay dead at his feet.

“What have you been up to, you naughty boy?” Evelyn chided as she scooped up the cat.

“Contaminating the crime scene, apparently,” Darius muttered.

“You brought a cat?” asked Bennett. “To a writing conference?”

“This is Dexter.” She forced his paw into a little wave, much to his obvious displeasure. “I’m afraid he’s a bit of a murderer.”

“A murderer of crows?” Alastair said with a snicker, studying Dexter’s kill.

“Doesn’t there have to be more than one crow to be a murder?” asked Bennett.

“I don’t think it’s a crow,” said Isabel. “Look at the yellow beak. Might be a starling.”

Darius cleared his throat. “Excuse me, could we maybe focus on the other body?”

“Yes,” said Bennett, striding back to Ian. “I think we should move him inside and—”

“No!” Darius leapt in front of him again, as if he could possibly restrain him. Bennett was nearly twice his size. “We can’t compromise the crime scene any more than we already have.” He cut a sharp look at the cat.

“But what if it rains again?” asked Isabel. “We don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here. There’s weather and wildlife.” She, too, cut a look at the cat, who licked his chops in response.

“Oh god.” Simone cringed at the implication.

“If you’re really concerned about preserving the body…” Isabel let her voice trail off, as if she knew exactly where she was leading Darius.

“A Convenient Suicide,” Darius whispered. “The first body was found in the desert. It was over a hundred degrees outside. Detective Griggs knew the CSI team would take hours to arrive. They put the body in the freezer to preserve the evidence.” He glanced up at Isabel. “You’re right.”

“But the power is out,” Jade reminded him.

“The freezer will stay cold for at least twenty-four hours,” Evelyn said with the authority of a door-to-door salesman. Everyone turned to her in surprise. “My husband worked as a refrigerator repairman in Houston, God rest his soul. Have y’all ever been to Houston in August? It’s hotter than the devil’s bread oven. If a broken freezer in a south Texas summer can stay cold for a day, we shouldn’t have a problem.” She set down the cat, who darted into the bushes, already on the hunt for his next victim. “We just have to keep the door closed to trap the cold air inside.”

Isabel looked to Darius. Evelyn and Jade did, too. As if he’d become the provisional authority figure of the group. Just yesterday, the thought of Darius Walker in charge would have made Simone laugh. But something had come over him. Some sense of purpose that fit him as perfectly as a custom-tailored suit. It was like he’d been waiting all his life for someone to bestow the right mission upon him. And now that someone had, he was an arrow on a direct path to a target.

Which meant Simone would have to stay alert. Stay one step ahead of him. To ensure she didn’t become that target.

Why choose Darius Walker to be my detective? Well, it’s complicated, really.

In part, I chose him because he’s highly motivated by fear. Fear of uncertainty, fear of the dark, of heights, of disappointing his mother, of not getting enough sleep, and most important, fear of failure.

Fear of failure makes it very easy to influence someone. All you have to do is dangle the promise of an easy victory in front of them and they’ll follow it like a donkey chasing a carrot on a stick.

And I need Darius to follow my lead.

It shouldn’t be too hard, though. Not with his backstory. You see, there’s a wound buried deep within Darius’s heart. A betrayal he’s never quite gotten over. It left behind a painful scar and a desperate need to prove himself. Once I uncovered it, like a treasure hunter digging up buried jewels, I knew he’d be the perfect person to lead this investigation. I knew he’d relentlessly seek the truth, just like his precious hero Marlow Griggs.

Darius might not have believed he could ever become a detective himself, but I knew, if given just the right circumstances, the right clues, the right carrot, he would chase after it. He would rise to the challenge.

And he has.

I told you, I know these people better than they know themselves.

Chapter Sixteen

“No one is to touch him with bare hands,” said Darius as Bennett squeezed his fingers into one of the yellow rubber gloves that Jade had fetched from the laundry room. “Is that understood?”

The young whippersnapper sounded infuriatingly like Marlow Griggs. Bennett half expected him to start running around yelling, “Bullseye!” like the fictional detective in McCloud’s books.

“How exactly are we lifting him?” asked Isabel. “Are we all grabbing a limb or something?”

“Oh god.” Simone started blubbering into her hands again. Bennett didn’t buy her sob act for a second. Not after what he’d seen and heard last night.

“We need to distribute the weight evenly.” Darius glanced around the group, evidently searching for able bodies. “Bennett, Jade, Isabel…” His gaze lingered on Simone, then Evelyn before quickly moving on. “Alastair, and—”

“Excuse me,” said Evelyn, pushing her way to the front. “I may be eighty years old, but I’m perfectly capable of carrying a dead body.” She plucked a pair of rubber gloves from the box and pulled one on with a crisp snap. “I have a Peloton.”

“Okay,” Darius decided. “Evelyn, you take the feet. Isabel, get under the left shoulder, Jade under the right—”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” bellowed Alastair, shoving past Darius. “You bloody writers couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery. You spend far too much time planning. I can carry this bastard all by myself. I’ve been doing it his whole career.” He bent down and scooped his arms under McCloud’s torso, managing to sit him up straight. But when he attempted to lift him—presumably to fling him over his shoulder fireman-style—he faltered and fell back with a grunt. The body collapsed on top of him, pinning him to the pavement. “Oi! Get it off! Get it off!”

Bennett hurried over and lifted McCloud from under his armpits. More people rushed in to help, each taking a quadrant, until the body was hoisted into the air and Alastair could scurry free. Predictably, the robe fell to the ground and McCloud’s junk was on full display again. Bennett averted his eyes and clenched his teeth. “Someone cover him, please.”

Simone scooped up the robe and draped it back over McCloud as step by agonizingly slow step, they made their way back to the monastery.

Ian McCloud looked almost peaceful. Wrapped in his terry cloth robe with his head slumped against his chest and his eyes closed, Isabel could almost believe he’d fallen asleep in a chair.

A chair made of metal racks, surrounded by slabs of thawing meat that reminded Isabel too much of the bloated wound on the side of McCloud’s head. She shivered.

“Come on, let’s go,” said Darius, ushering the group out of the freezer. “We need to keep as much cold air in here as possible.”

Quickly, they all darted out the door, but Simone took her time, whimpering into a tissue as she gently dragged a red fingernail over McCloud’s cold, limp hand.

“Simone!” Darius hissed. “Hurry up.”

She kissed her fingertips and then pressed them to his lips before slowly making her way out of the freezer.

As the metal door swung shut with Ian McCloud’s lifeless body inside, Isabel felt the walls closing in around her too. She fought to hide her erratic breathing. She could not betray a single emotion. She could not afford to have anyone question her reasons for being here, especially not Darius, who had turned from awkward book nerd to confident crime scene investigator in seconds. All he needed was a deerstalker hat and a pipe.

She remembered Evelyn’s words from earlier, about the cold staying trapped inside for at least twenty-four hours, and wondered if that was true. How long would the body stay preserved? How long did DNA evidence last?

“Why don’t you all take a seat in the dining room?” said Jade. “I’ll make some coffee.”

“Can you make coffee?” Alastair asked hopefully. “With no power?”

“Not with the coffee maker. But the stove is gas and there’s plenty of propane in the tanks. And I’ll see what I can cobble together for breakfast.”

“I’ll help you, hon,” Evelyn offered but Jade shooed them all away.

“No, no. I can manage. Please. Go and sit down.”

Isabel didn’t need to be told twice. She peeled off the rubber gloves and tossed them into the nearest trash bin. Her hands were still shaking from the memory of Ian McCloud’s fleshy shoulder pressed into her palms. As the group shuffled into the dining room, she stuffed her trembling hands into the pockets of her pants, attempting to hide them from view.

That’s when she realized she still had Ian McCloud’s wedding ring in her pocket.

You’re probably familiar with the term red herring—a detail that seems significant but ultimately turns out to be irrelevant or deliberately misleading. But do you know where the term comes from?

It dates back to the seventeenth century, when scent-tracking hounds were trained to follow the smell of smoked fish (or herring) that had been dragged across the ground. Occasionally, the trainers would try to trick the dogs with a stronger-smelling fish, a red herring, to test their ability to stay focused.

I’ve always loved writing red herrings. Trying to trick my readers with a well-placed diversion or a compelling clue, testing their ability to stay focused. A little game between writer and reader.

The question is, how will you fare in this murder?

Can you track the original scent? Can you sniff out the truth? Or will you be led astray by my stronger-smelling fish?

Let the fun and games begin.

Step 4

“The First Investigation”

Chapter Seventeen

The kettle let out a sharp whistle, and as Jade poured hot water into two large French presses, she tried not to think about the dead body locked in the freezer behind her. She kept imagining Ian McCloud waking up and banging on the door to be let out.

Knock. Knock.

Jade jumped, stifling a scream.

“Calm down, it’s just me.” Jasmine slipped through the open door from the service hallway and Jade rushed to lock it behind her.

“Look, we have a lot to do, but I’ve been working on a plan.” Jasmine started to pace behind her in the small kitchen, her voice calm and calculating. “First off, the champagne bottle is still in his room. And we have to move that room service cart. Jadey, are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” Jade whispered in a strained voice as she gripped the plunger of the French press.

Jasmine’s footsteps slowed to a halt. “You have to admit, it was pretty satisfying seeing him floating in the water like that, wasn’t it?”

Jade shuddered. “Please don’t say that.”

Jasmine laughed cruelly. “You said you wanted him dead.”

“I didn’t mean it. I was just upset. I never wanted anyone to die!”

“A little late for that,” Jasmine said with a snort.

Jade’s grip on the plunger tightened. “I never should have agreed to this. I never should have come here.”

“Jadey—”

“Just go away.” Jade tried to match Jasmine’s confidence, but who was she kidding? She’d never been the confident one in this relationship.

Jasmine’s arms slid around her torso from behind, squeezing Jade just a little too tight. “I can’t. You need me.”

Jade wrenched out of her sister’s grip and turned to face her. “I don’t need you. You’ve only made everything worse by being here—” She froze, only now noticing what Jasmine was wearing. “Are you kidding me?”

Jasmine peered down at her frayed black T-shirt. It was strategically slashed to reveal flashes of skin, the cuts forming a frame around the spiky pink logo of the eighties metal band Twisted Sister. “What? I love this shirt. You know that.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little…” Jade swallowed, glancing toward the door. “Inappropriate?”

Jasmine laughed again. “Nobody else is going to see it. It’s not like I’m going to go waltzing through the dining room.”

“I know, but—”

The handle of the back door rattled, followed by a sharp knock. “Hello? Ms. Brooks?”

Jade gritted her teeth. She couldn’t deal with this right now. Go, she mouthed as Jasmine darted out of sight.

Jade unlocked the door. “Oh, Marjorie. Hello.” She tried to keep her voice light as the housekeeper entered from the service hallway. In the chaos of moving the body, Jade had forgotten all about her.

“Why was the door locked?” Marjorie’s red-rimmed eyes darted around the kitchen in confusion, as if expecting to find someone. Jade followed her gaze, noticing the freezer door was cracked open.

She rushed to close it. “Sorry, I must have locked it by accident,” Jade said, returning to the coffee. “Did you need something?”

“I cannot stay in my room,” Marjorie choked out. “I cannot stop thinking about—” Her words were swallowed by a shuddering sob.

“It’s okay.” Keeping one hand on the plunger, Jade slid the other around the woman’s bony shoulders. “It’s been a very difficult morning.”

She heard a snort from the freezer and coughed to cover it before releasing Marjorie.

“I will do this, yes?” Marjorie nodded to the French press. Only then did Jade notice her vise grip on the plunger handle.

“No, it’s okay.” Jade let go and massaged her aching hand. “I’ve got it.”

“Please, I must do something,” Marjorie begged, the hard consonants of her accent contrasting with the softness in her eyes.

We need to get rid of her. The thought slipped, unbidden, into Jade’s mind, startling her. But it was true. Marjorie had already heard Jade talking to her sister once, possibly twice. They couldn’t afford for the housekeeper to start poking around, asking questions. Nobody here could know about Jasmine.

“Actually, um”—Jade struggled to keep her voice light—“would you mind driving down to the bridge to check if it’s been cleared? I’d go myself but I don’t have a car here. I’m hoping the road is open by now. In fact, it probably is. Would you check?”

Marjorie looked like she wanted to kiss her. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, Ms. Brooks. Thank you.”

“And,” Jade added, glancing toward the freezer, “I think we should lock the door to Mr. McCloud’s room.” She pulled the heavy brass key she’d found at the hot springs from her pocket and handed it to Marjorie. The housekeeper studied it with such innocent confusion, Jade’s hardened heart cracked open a little.

“I’m sure his death was an accident,” she rushed to say, “but when the police come, they might want to look in there and I don’t want anyone to touch anything.”

“I will do it,” Marjorie said with a grim nod before disappearing back into the service hallway.

Jade waited for the housekeeper’s footsteps to fade completely before easing open the freezer door. She gasped. “What the hell are you doing?”

Jasmine was crouched beside McCloud’s body, peeking under his robe with a clinical curiosity. “Whoa. Talk about shrinkage.”

“Stop that!” Jade hissed, shivering from the cold air. “Get out of there! Are you sick?”

Jasmine ignored the question as she stepped out of the freezer and glanced toward the back door through which Marjorie had just left. Her voice was calm and calculating once more. “The housekeeper’s going to be a problem.”

“I think we should each recount where we were and what we were doing after the power went out last night.” Darius paced alongside the dining room table, where the rest of the group sat.

“For fuck’s sake.” Bennett groaned, holding his head in his hands. “Give it a rest.”

“We need to establish a timeline of events,” Darius went on. He was surprised by his own agency. He sounded good. He sounded confident. It was very unlike him.

“I’m worried about Jade.” Evelyn glanced toward the kitchen door. “I mean, did you see her out there at the hot springs? She looked positively numb.”

“It was a shock to everyone,” murmured Isabel, drumming her fingers against the table.

Not everyone, thought Darius. One of these people is the murderer.

“That poor woman shouldn’t have to deal with this alone.” Evelyn reached into her pocket and withdrew a handful of jelly beans. “I’m sure dead bodies were not in the job description.”

“Here we are.” The kitchen door swung open and Jade emerged with two large coffeepots and a tray of sliced bread. As she set them on the table, Darius noticed her left thumb was bandaged. And hadn’t she had blood in her hair last night? “Sorry I couldn’t toast the bread. But I found some jam in the pantry.” When no one moved, she began pouring coffee into cups.

“So, the power went out around 10:45 p.m.” Darius slid into the chair at the head of the table and gratefully accepted the cup Jade offered. Caffeine was disastrous for his sleep hygiene, but he was too exhausted to care. He took a sip and turned to Simone, whose cheek rested on the table as if her head were too heavy to hold up. “What were you doing around that time?”

“Why do I have to go first?” she whined.

“I’d think you’d know,” said Alastair. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest, reminding Darius of one of those cranky British judges on a reality talent show.

“No, I don’t know,” she spat back at him. “Why aren’t you questioning her first?” She pointed a long polished fingernail at Isabel.

“Me?” Isabel asked, eyebrows raised.

“Am I the only one who saw it?” Simone asked. “She was on the back of Ian’s motorcycle when he arrived. She came with him.”

“I didn’t come with him. I’d never even met the man before yesterday,” Isabel insisted, but her gaze slid away as she spoke. “I had car trouble and he offered me a ride.”

Simone rolled her eyes. “He does love a damsel in distress.”

“I am not a damsel in distress,” Isabel shot back.

“Is that why you were wearing such a slutty dress?” Simone snapped.

Isabel’s eyes widened. “What the hell—”

“What I’m quite confused about,” Alastair interjected, thoughtfully stirring his coffee, “is why someone would come to a mystery writers’ conference if they don’t, in fact, write mystery.”

At first, everyone was puzzled by the interjection until Alastair glanced up and locked eyes with Isabel. “You see, I keep a copy of every query letter I receive. After you verbally attacked me at dinner last night, I got curious and checked my files. I found that you did query me. A few years ago. But not for a mystery novel. For a young adult fantasy.”

“WHAT?” Simone looked more scandalized by this reveal than the actual murder.

“Fantasy?” repeated Evelyn, mindlessly popping jelly beans into her mouth.

“The Blood of Fire trilogy!” Darius blurted with sudden realization. “That’s why I knew your name.” He pointed at her tattoo. “And where I’ve seen that symbol. It’s on your book covers.”

All eyes swung to Isabel, who was glaring at Alastair with a loathing expression. The agent merely smiled in return and blew daintily on his coffee.

“Hold up,” said Bennett, raising a hand. “What is a young adult fantasy writer doing at a mystery conference?”

“I—” Isabel hesitated, her gaze dropping to her cup. “I’ve been struggling with the last book in my series and I thought coming here, exploring a new genre, might inspire some ideas.”

“That makes sense!” Darius exclaimed, feeling a rush of relief. “Tons of BookTubers have been talking about the last book. There’s a lot of debate about how it should end.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Isabel muttered.

“I’m just saying it tracks,” Darius hurried to explain. “Your reason for being here.”

“Why wouldn’t it track?” Isabel replied, pinning him with a sharp look.

“It wouldn’t…” Darius fidgeted in his seat. “I mean, it does. I mean…” He gave up and turned back to Simone. “Can you walk us through your movements last night?”

“Fine. I went to Ian’s room around 10:15.”

“How did you know what room he was in?” Darius asked.

Simone stared at her fingernails. “I followed the housekeeper when she delivered his bags. I’d recognize those monogrammed luggage tags anywhere.”

Bennett coughed the word “Stalker.”

“It’s a little game we play,” said Simone defensively. “He invites me somewhere and I have to use my ‘detective skills’ to find him. Like many powerful men, he likes being pursued.”

Isabel let out a snort that drew everyone’s attention. She covered it up with a sip of coffee.

“Anyway,” Simone went on, “this was supposed to be our big reconciliation. That’s what he said in his text message when he invited me. He wanted to make up. I assumed that’s why he ordered the champagne. It was on a room service cart outside his door when I arrived.”

“Hold up,” Alastair interjected. “This place has room service?”

Simone ignored him. “But when I went into his room, he was completely drunk and forgot he’d even invited me. He thought I was stalking him.” She shot another look at Bennett. “Which I wasn’t. So we fought.”

“But you didn’t take the champagne in with you,” Bennett pointed out. “In fact, it looked like you were already pretty pissed off before you arrived.”

“How do you know that?” Simone snapped, her eyes narrowing. “Were you watching me through the peephole?”

Bennett’s cheeks flushed with color. “I heard footsteps,” he muttered. “I went to see who it was, and that’s when you came marching down the hall looking ready to go to battle.”

“It was just a role-play,” said Simone. “I thought I’d spice things up with a little tension. A fake fight. There’s nothing better than make-up sex. But it quickly turned into a real fight.”

“And then what?” prompted Darius.

Simone dropped her head back to the table with a heavy sigh. “Then I left.”

Darius nodded. This lined up with his own memories of last night. Standing frozen in the hallway near McCloud’s room, hearing bits and pieces of the fight. He couldn’t catch every word as the voices were muffled. But eventually, McCloud’s door burst open and Simone stormed out, wearing some kind of lacy lingerie…and nothing else.

“But I soon realized I left my key in my robe, which was on Ian’s floor,” Simone went on. “So I came down here to get a spare.”

“What time was this?” Darius asked.

“I don’t know. It must have been around 10:45 because the power went out on my way downstairs. I nearly tripped in the dark.” She flung a hand toward Jade, who had folded herself into a chair, cradling a cup of coffee. “She was there. She’ll tell you.”

“You were downstairs?” Darius’s gaze pivoted to the facilitator. “What were you doing?”

Jade startled under the sudden attention. She seemed to startle a lot. Like she was always expecting someone to jump out at her. “I was cleaning up the kitchen. Then when the power went out, I went to the basement to check on the generator, trying to figure out why it didn’t come on.”

“Why didn’t it come on?” asked Darius.

“I don’t know.” Jade shook her head. “There was some kind of error code. I tried to restart it several times, but it wouldn’t start. So I came upstairs to get flashlights and ran into Simone, who was locked out of her room. That’s when I got her the spare key from the back office.”

“Then what did you do?” Darius pressed.

“I went to bed,” Jade said.

“Me, too,” added Simone quickly.

“No, you didn’t.” Bennett glared at Simone. “You came back to McCloud’s room. I heard you banging on his door and calling out his name at one in the morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Simone admitted. “I didn’t want to end the night on a fight so I went back to make up, but he wasn’t there.”

“Because he’d already gone down to the hot springs!” Evelyn concluded, looking pleased with herself as she popped in another jelly bean. “Mmm. Candy apple.”

Darius thought about the chaotic crime scene, chairs and tables overturned. Was that due to the storm? Or some kind of physical altercation? “So you didn’t track him down at the hot springs?”

“No, I went to sleep,” said Simone. “That’s it.”

“Is it my turn? I can tell y’all where I was,” Evelyn volunteered eagerly.

Everyone turned to her with expectant looks.

She straightened up in her seat. “Well, I went searching for Dexter after dinner but I couldn’t find him. Then, I went to bed around nine. So, sadly, I slept through all the excitement.”

“Maybe the cat did it!” Bennett said with feigned revelation.

“This is a waste of time,” griped Simone. “If Ian was murdered, Alastair is the most likely suspect. He stole two million dollars from him. End of story.”

Alastair glanced up from dunking his bread into his coffee, completely unfazed by the accusation. “That would be true if it weren’t for the fact that I didn’t have a clue he was going to be here. Someone at Pen Ultimate Writers told me he’d been disinvited. It’s the only reason I came.”

Darius felt the urge to interrupt and ask more questions, but he remembered something Marlow Griggs had said in Burning the Bones, when he was training a new detective on the force. If the suspects are interrogating each other, why get in their way?

“But he was here!” said Simone, her eyebrows arching with realization. “What if the murder wasn’t premeditated? What if it was simply a crime of opportunity? He ruined your career, and when you saw him here and discovered that you were supposed to be disinvited, you were so filled with rage that you followed him to the hot springs, invisible to prying eyes due to the power outage, and attacked him. He tried to fight back, but you grabbed the first weapon you could find, killed him with a blow to the head, and rolled his body into the pool.”

“That would explain the overturned furniture,” said Evelyn.

Alastair calmly took a bite of his soggy bread. “So, you’re saying I just happened to be at the same writing conference as the person who ruined my career, and then there just happened to be a landslide that trapped us here together, and then the power just happened to go out, thereby giving me the opportunity to kill him.” He barked out a laugh. “Darling, if you submitted that manuscript to me, I would send it back with a big fat rejection letter that said ‘Too convenient.’ ”

Darius rapped his knuckles against the table. The agent was right. It was too convenient. If he’d learned anything from analyzing mystery novels, it was that convenience is a death sentence. Nothing in your plot should seem like a coincidence. It should all feel organic. Connected. Logical.

Simone’s theory relied too heavily on accidents.

“Maybe,” Evelyn said, “we should be looking at who had access to McCloud’s room.”

“What do you mean?” Simone asked.

“I mean, we’re all assuming he was killed at the hot springs.”

“He had to have been,” said Simone. “His robe and slippers were there.”

“What if that was a setup?” Evelyn’s eyes twinkled. “To make it look like he drowned?”

“You’re saying someone murdered him in his room and dragged his body all the way down to the pool?” Bennett asked in disbelief. “Along with his robe and slippers?”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility we should at least consider,” said Evelyn. “Those doors can only be locked or unlocked with a key. It’s a fire hazard, if you ask me. I mean, imagine if there was a fire and you couldn’t find your key? You’d be charred like Baked Alaska!”

Several people winced at the description. Evelyn reached into her pocket for another handful of candy and offered it to the group. “Jelly bean?”

“Well, if anyone would have the key to Ian’s room, it would be Bennett,” said Simone.

Everyone spun toward the assistant, who threw his hands in the air. “Hey! I left it in his room when I put him to bed.”

“So, how did you get in last night?” Alastair asked Simone.

“His door was unlocked when I got there,” she said, crossing her arms.

“But I’m sure he locked it when you left,” muttered Bennett. “I know I would.”

Darius closed his eyes and clawed through his memory of last night. He remembered hearing the door slam, the sound of Simone’s angry footsteps as she strode down the corridor, and then…Yes! There was a quiet scraping noise. Metal against metal. A key turning in a lock.

“So, then we’re back to who had access to his room!” Evelyn chirped. She sounded like she was enjoying this a tad too much. “If someone did sneak into his room, bludgeon him in the head, then stage it to look like an accidental drowning, they would have first had to get into his room.”

“The spare keys!” Simone gasped and stared incredulously at Jade. “Every room has one. They’re locked in a cupboard in the office. I watched her open it when she got mine.”

The facilitator looked like she wanted to shrivel up and disappear. “All the keys were there when I went to bed. I swear. I suppose someone could have—”

“McCloud wasn’t killed in his room,” said Isabel, sounding strangely certain.

“He wasn’t killed, period,” said Bennett.

“Maybe we should search his room?” suggested Evelyn, her eyes dancing at the idea.

“I told Marjorie to lock it,” said Jade. “I don’t think anyone should go in there until the police come.”

“I agree,” said Darius, grateful someone else was finally taking this seriously.

“So, you’re saying Marjorie also has a key,” said Simone.

“No,” said Jade. “The housekeepers use the spare keys from the office. I gave her the key I found at the hot springs. Mr. McCloud’s copy.”

Simone gasped. “What if the housekeeper is the killer!”

“Marjorie?” Jade asked in disbelief.

“What reason would the housekeeper have to murder a random guest?” asked Alastair.

“But he wasn’t a random guest,” protested Simone. “And when she came to my room yesterday to deliver my welcome packet, she seemed pretty excited to meet him.”

“Everyone’s excited to meet him,” Bennett muttered. “Until they meet him.”

“I think she was one of those crazy fans who didn’t like the way he ended one of his books, so she killed him,” said Simone.

“I think that’s a clever tale spun by a clever writer,” said Alastair.

Simone brightened. “You think I’m clever?”

“No. I was talking about Stephen King, the author who wrote the plot you just described.” Alastair glared at her. “But you seem quite determined to pin the blame on someone else. I’d be more willing to guess that you didn’t like the ending McCloud wrote to your story.”

“It was just a fight!” Simone shrieked, her tone teetering on the edge of hysteria.

Darius turned to Isabel, trying to reclaim control of the conversation. “What makes you so sure he wasn’t killed in his room?”

Isabel stared into her coffee. “Think about it. The power was out, which means no elevator. How could someone carry his body down to the hot springs when it took six of us to carry it back up? Not to mention, if it was blunt force trauma, where’s the trail of blood from the third floor? You can’t clean up something like that without being noticed.”

That seemed to stump everyone. Darius glanced around the table, watching as coffees were thoughtfully sipped and subtle glances were cast around.

“And,” she went on, “like you said, his robe and slippers were there. He must have walked down there himself.”

“And drowned,” said Bennett. “By accident.”

“You seem to be very insistent that this was an accident.” Simone’s eyes flashed.

Bennett groaned. “I just think you’re all grasping at straws. You’re mystery writers. You see murder everywhere you go.”

“Except her.” Alastair cut his eyes to Isabel.

“You’re a mystery writer, too,” Simone reminded Bennett.

“Yeah, but I’m not trying to turn this into something it’s not. The man was drunk off his face. He had a fight with Simone, he went down to the hot springs to decompress, tripped in the dark, hit his head, and drowned. There was no foul play. There was no murder.”

Everyone fell silent, looking chastised by Bennett’s rant. One by one, the intrigue faded from their eyes as their imaginations unwound and speculations fizzled out. Bennett’s logic was sound.

But Darius was not convinced. Maybe he had read too many mystery novels. Maybe he was grasping at straws. But he had a clue the others didn’t have: an unfinished manuscript with the potential to spawn several possible motives and suspects.

“Then it’s settled,” said Alastair, wiping soggy breadcrumbs from his face as he stood up. “Just an accident. I guess I’ll be on my way, then.”

Darius blinked in surprise. “You mean, leave?”

The agent crumpled his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Well, I’m not going to hang around this madhouse.” He turned to Jade. “I assume the bridge has been cleared by now?”

“Uh…” Jade hesitated. “I sent Marjorie down to check but she’s not back yet.”

“You let her get away?” Simone cried. “She’s probably halfway to Canada by now.”

Alastair snorted. “Can you blame her? I’m getting as far away from you nutters as possible.”

He gave the group a clumsy salute before striding to the door. “Toodles.”

“Wait.” Darius launched from his seat, his pulse spiking. “You can’t just leave.”

“Why the bloody hell not?”

“Because…” Darius’s voice trailed off as the futility of his argument dawned on him. Because you’re a suspect, he wanted to say. You all are.

A real detective would never let any of the suspects leave until the murder was solved. But as Darius was painfully reminded, he was not a real detective. He didn’t have the authority to detain anyone. So he was forced to watch Alastair Sinclair walk right out the door.

Oh, don’t you worry. Alastair’s not going anywhere. At least not yet. Darius might not have the power to detain anyone, but I do.

It’s all about the timing, you see. If Alastair leaves now, he’ll discover what happened to Marjorie and it’s far too early to reveal that. There’s too much to do first.

Isabel has to get rid of McCloud’s wedding ring.

Simone has to find her missing flash drive.

And Darius has to uncover his next clue, which I’ve planted at the hot springs.

As I said from the beginning, when writing a murder, you must stay in control of the narrative at all times. Which means no one is leaving until I say so.

Chapter Eighteen

Darius stiffened with each futile crank of the engine as the group sat in tense silence. Moments later, the agent stomped back into the dining room looking red-faced and furious.

“Bloody Jag won’t start!” he thundered. “I need to have a look under the bonnet.” Then, when no one moved, he shouted, “Well, don’t just sit there! Someone get me some tools.”

Jade leapt up and scurried into the kitchen. She reappeared minutes later with a rusty red toolbox, which Alastair wrenched from her hand without a thank-you before vanishing again.

“Well,” said Bennett, pushing back his chair and draining his coffee cup, “looks like we’re going to be here for a little while longer.”

“Not much longer,” Jade was quick to add. “I’m sure Marjorie will be back soon.”

“Great. Keep us posted.” Darius flashed everyone a perfunctory smile as he rose to his feet and strolled out of the dining room. He tried to keep his pace slow, natural, but inside, urgency was building. The clock was ticking. Any moment now they could receive news that the bridge was open, and he didn’t want to waste a single second. He’d been given the gift of time. Time to comb through the details, return to the crime scene to look for more clues.

Time to feel like a real detective for a little while longer.

Darius Walker had spent the last ten years of his life feeling directionless, pointless. An empty page waiting to be filled with words. And now finally, finally, he felt a tug toward something. Like an invisible string pulling him in a singular direction.

He was going to follow it.

Simone stared into her coffee cup as excuses were made, chairs were pushed back, and everyone shuffled out of the dining room, leaving her alone with her thoughts…and the darkness of what she’d done.

She hadn’t told the others all the details of last night. The part about the fight was true, of course. She couldn’t lie about that. Too many witnesses. But if she was lucky, no one had heard the entire fight—Simone’s rants about what she’d seen on the flash drive and Ian’s desperate attempts to placate her with his same old tricks. Kissing her neck, sliding the robe off her shoulders, easing her onto the bed, quieting her with his tongue.

It had almost worked. She’d felt herself softening, her resolve falling away just like it always did. But then he guided her hand between his legs and whispered, “Do you see what you do to me? I can’t resist you, Simone.”

That’s when she snapped.

“You used me!” she cried, pushing him off her and scrambling to her feet. “You manipulated me. Just like you manipulate everyone. But I’m not letting you get away with it this time.”

She stormed out of the room, a tornado of fury and vengeance, only later realizing she’d left her robe on the floor of his room. And her key was in the pocket.

Along with the flash drive.

That was why she’d returned later that night. Not to make up, but to get it back. She’d banged on his door, calling out his name, but there was no response and the door was locked.

A flicker of movement yanked her out of her memory, bringing her back to the dining room. She glanced out the window just as a figure darted past, heading into the trees, looking like a hunter tracking prey.

No, not a hunter. Just an amateur detective snooping around where he shouldn’t.

Darius Walker was going to be a problem. She could feel it.

Simone drained the last of her coffee and stared into the cup. Empty. Just like the pocket of the robe they’d found at the hot springs. Her robe. Which meant by the time Ian arrived at the pool last night, he’d either taken the flash drive out or it had fallen out.

And now the proof of what she’d done was floating somewhere around this monastery.

Chapter Nineteen

Jade was careful to ensure the pillow completely covered her face before she screamed. The sound was swallowed up like a gunshot through a silencer. Just a quiet vibration to let her know she was still here. Still alive.

Pulling the pillow from her face, she sat up and peered out the window of her tiny room in the monastery’s attic. Four floors below, the staff parking lot was empty. Marjorie’s blue sedan was still gone. A crippling uneasiness bloomed in Jade’s gut. It had been over an hour since she’d sent the housekeeper to check on the bridge. Why wasn’t she back yet?

Something rustled in the hallway. Jade’s head jerked toward the door, heart hammering. She hated the fourth floor. The corridors up here were drafty and cold, with walls that creaked like something was living inside them.

She crept to the hallway and peered out just as a door clicked shut—sharp and echoing. Jade jumped, eyes darting up and down the corridor. Which way had it come from? Marjorie’s room? But her car was still gone. Maybe she’d parked in the driveway and come through the front.

Jade hurried down the hall to the door next to the service stairwell and knocked softly. “Marjorie? Are you in there?”

No response. The handle was locked.

She pounded harder. “Marjorie! If you’re in there, please say something!”

Still nothing.

Defeated, Jade shuffled back to her room and froze in the doorway when she saw Jasmine sitting cross-legged on the bed, scraping dirt from under her fingernails. Jade’s eyes narrowed as she took in her sister’s face. It was streaked with mud. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Out,” said Jasmine vaguely without looking up.

Jade shut the door and immediately caught a whiff of something acrid and bitter. “Have you been smoking?”

“No.” Jasmine crossed her arms. “Okay, fine. But I only had one. I’m under a lot of pressure, you know?”

“You are?” Jade cried incredulously.

“I’m starting to think the police won’t believe this was an accident.”

Jade felt her blood turn to ice.

“I mean, what happens when they discover who you really are?”

Jade fled to the bathroom and sat on the edge of the claw-foot tub, trying to catch her breath. There were few places to hide in this tiny room they shared, and Jasmine had never been good with boundaries.

She appeared in the doorway a moment later, her dark eyes scrutinizing Jade’s face. “That disguise might fool the boy playing detective, but it’s not going to fool a real detective.”

“I know!” Jade snapped. “That’s why I’m done following your plan. It’s all gone too far.”

“What?” Jasmine looked betrayed. “No! You can’t stop now. There’s too much left to do!”

“There’s nothing left to do,” Jade insisted.

“Come on,” Jasmine coaxed, sitting next to her on the edge of the tub. Jade tensed and scooted farther away. “You promised to help me, remember?”

“As if I could ever forget,” Jade muttered, closing her eyes. She could still hear the pleading in her sister’s voice when she’d come to her, asking—no, begging for help. Jasmine rarely begged.

I need you, Jadey. And you know it.

They hadn’t spoken in such a long time, the aftermath of their last failed book together still haunting the silence between them, crushing Jade’s heart. But how could she say no to Jasmine? She was the reason Jade did anything noteworthy at all. She came up with all their book ideas, always pitched as their “next masterpiece.” Then Jade would sit down and figure out how to make it all work. Every co-author relationship needed a dreamer and a doer—someone to give orders and someone to follow them. With two dreamers, nothing gets written. With two doers, there’s nothing to write. Jade had never minded being the doer.

Until Jasmine suggested this as their next masterpiece.

Our magnum opus. Co-writers reunited for one more story!

Like with most of Jasmine’s ideas, Jade wished she’d just said no.

“It’s over,” Jade said firmly, standing up from the tub. “I delivered the champagne like you asked. I’m done.”

“But you never even got into his room,” she reminded Jade, plunging her back into the memory of last night—pushing the rickety room service cart down the hall, raising her hand to knock on Ian McCloud’s door just as heavy footsteps sent her scurrying away. A little while later, the power went out.

“You need to go back to his room and find his laptop,” Jasmine insisted.

“Marjorie isn’t back yet. She still has the key.”

“Use the spare. From the office.”

“No. I said I’m finished!” Jade cried. “This has gotten out of hand. Eventually the police are going to show up and they’re going to fingerprint everything and—”

“So, wear gloves.”

Jade stormed out of the bathroom and walked to the window, grabbing a fistful of curtains as she willed Marjorie’s car to pull into the gravel parking lot below.

“Damn it, Jadey!” Jasmine bellowed, stomping after her. “This could be our only chance! And you’re going to throw it away because you’re scared?”

“Yes!” she snapped. “I’m scared, okay? I’m not you. I don’t have your courage or your thick skin. Plus, you keep disappearing on me every time things go wrong. Why did you even bother to come if you weren’t going to help? It’s always the same with you, Jasmine. You dream up these big ideas and then bolt the moment things get difficult, leaving me to deal with it alone. And now—” She paused, a shiver passing through her as she pinned her sister with a glare, taking in her mud-stained face and hands. “What were you doing just now?”

There was a chilling silence. For once, Jasmine looked away first. “You don’t want to know.”

“Of course,” Jade muttered, shaking her head. “Well, at least clean yourself up.”

Jasmine looked chastised but obeyed, returning to the bathroom. Jade had always assumed the parental role in their relationship. The protector. Jasmine was the wild one and Jade the cautious one. Jasmine was the one who reached too high and drove too fast. Who fell out of trees and crashed cars. Who broke bones and hearts like they were sold in refillable packs at the store. Jade was always the one waiting on the ground, or by the phone, or in the hospital, to pick up the pieces.

With a weary sigh, she grabbed her binder and turned to today’s schedule, trying to fill the unsettling silence with distracting thoughts. Distracting tasks.

Saturday

9:00 a.m.   Breakfast — Patio

10:00 a.m.   Keynote speech by Ian McCloud

11:00 a.m.   “The Power of Subplots” workshop with Sebastian Blackstone — Foyer

12:00 p.m.   Lunch — Dining room

3:00 p.m.   Breakout sessions with critique groups — Library

Jade checked her watch. Almost eleven. The keynote was obviously out of the question—with the speaker being dead and all—and none of the workshop teachers had shown up. But she could still set up the critique group session. And everyone needed to eat. She should probably use all the fresh ingredients in the warming fridge before they rotted.

She closed the binder with a snap, already feeling the exhilarating rush of purpose. Of control. The ground restabilizing beneath her.

She slid her suit jacket back on, pulled the sleeves taut, and started for the door. But just as she reached for the handle, Jasmine emerged from the bathroom, always with the last word. “You’re wrong, Jadey. You’re not alone. We’re co-authors, remember? We’re in this together.”

Chapter Twenty

As Darius hurried down the cobblestone path that wound through the dense forest, he tried to form a timeline of events in his mind. That was what Marlow Griggs always did at the start of an investigation, laying out the pieces of the puzzle he had so he could see what was missing.

4:45 p.m. – McCloud drinks in the lounge, sees Simone, storms out.

7:00 p.m. – Dinner. McCloud is absent. Bennett says he’s passed out drunk in his room.

7:00 p.m. – 9:45 p.m. – McCloud wakes up???

10:00 p.m. – McCloud delivers handwritten note to Darius.

10:15–10:35 p.m. – Simone and McCloud argue, Simone leaves, McCloud locks his door.

10:45 p.m. – Power goes out. Simone goes downstairs to fetch her spare key. Jade checks on the generator.

1:00 a.m. – Simone goes back to McCloud’s room to make up, he’s not there.

7:00 a.m. – McCloud’s body is found in the hot springs.

Darius frowned. There were too many gaps in his timeline. McCloud could have been killed anytime between ten forty-five last night and seven this morning. Presumably he’d been in the water for a while, based on the maceration of his head wound, but without any forensic tools or an official autopsy, there was no way to accurately pin down time of death. Darius would have to rely solely on logic and any evidence he could uncover.

He approached the clearing in the trees and the smell of sulfur from the hot springs stung his nostrils. Despite the debris, the large pool appeared deceptively serene in the late-morning light. The dark water lapped innocently in the gentle breeze, the birds chirped in the trees as if they hadn’t been sole witnesses to a ghastly event. Two if you counted Dexter’s murder of their kin.

Darius scanned the crime scene, cataloging every overturned piece of furniture, every fallen tree branch and broken planter, every potential murder weapon, until his gaze landed on the only thing that looked unaffected from last night’s storm: McCloud’s cashmere slippers. They sat side by side on the ground next to the lounge chair where his robe had been found.

How does a storm knock over furniture but leave two slippers and a robe undisturbed?

He thought about his own sleepless night, tossing and turning, listening to the rain batter the windows, until finally, everything stilled around midnight.

12:00 a.m.–1:00 a.m. – McCloud walks down to the hot springs in his robe and slippers?

It made sense that he would have waited for the storm to subside. Why go for a relaxing dip in the middle of a gale? So that narrowed the timeline a little, but not much.

As Darius continued to examine the scene, a scenario started to take shape in his mind: Ian McCloud lounging in the steaming hot water. His eyes closed, his senses dulled from the alcohol. His killer sneaks up from behind and raises their weapon—a tree branch, a garden rake, a piece of broken furniture. But at the last minute, McCloud hears something and turns. The killer catches him on the side of the head, just above his right ear. McCloud slumps into the water.

Dead? Or just knocked out? It doesn’t matter. He dies either way. From blunt force trauma or drowning.

But what about the blood? Whether he was killed by the blow or just knocked unconscious, the wound would bleed. Evelyn suggested that the blood dispersed in the water. But that didn’t seem possible unless—

Darius’s gaze whipped to the edge of the pool, where water once cascaded in thick sheets over the mountainside. Now, with the power out, there was just a concrete rim where the infinity edge used to be. He approached slowly and peered over the cliffside, his stomach convulsing at the sight of the drop.

But just as he suspected, there it was. The catch basin. Where water was collected and pumped through powerful filtration systems before being returned to the pool. But it required electricity, and the power went out at least an hour before McCloud likely came down here.

Darius scanned the water in the tank. It looked just as clear as the water in the pool. If the system wasn’t running, how did the blood get diluted?

Jade said the generator never turned on due to a system error. But what if the monastery’s exterior ran on a different generator from the interior, keeping the infinity pool powered for several hours, until the diesel ran out? That would’ve given the pumps plenty of time to filter blood from the water. And the sound of cascading water might have concealed the killer’s approaching footsteps, allowing them to sneak up on McCloud from behind. Just like in…

“Vanishing Point,” Darius whispered with a shiver.

It was one of McCloud’s lesser-known novels, where the victim was found floating in an infinity pool at a luxury spa resort. Detective Griggs and his team struggled to find blood evidence due to the powerful filtration system. Had the killer picked the hot springs for this very reason? A kind of poetic justice, using one of McCloud’s own plots against him.

Hadn’t Simone said at dinner that Vanishing Point was her favorite book?

Darius slipped on a fresh pair of cleaning gloves and slowly, deliberately made his way around the perimeter of the hot springs, examining every square inch of the landscaping for evidence the killer might have missed. He’d made two complete circles when he found himself back at McCloud’s cashmere slippers. This time, however, something caught his eye. Partially concealed behind the heel of the left slipper, a small object glinted in the morning sun.

A flash drive.

Suddenly, a strange sensation started to hum inside Darius. Like a subtle vibration in his bones. A certainty that coursed through his veins, telling him he was on the right track.

“Bullseye,” he whispered.

Of course Darius is on the right track. Because he’s on my track. He’s exactly where I need him to be. His timeline is impressive, too. Obviously it’s full of holes, though. Unlike my own, which is flawless. Then again, he only has a sliver of the details. I have them all. For instance, he’s missing four crucial events from last night.

10:07 p.m. — Bennett finds the Wi-Fi network and sends an important email

10:10 p.m. — Jade delivers a bottle of champagne to room 307

11:00 p.m. — Simone realizes her flash drive is still in the robe she left on McCloud’s floor

1:07 a.m. — Isabel returns to her room with McCloud’s wedding ring in her pocket

Hopefully by now, your own list of suspects is growing. A good murder obviously needs suspects. Preferably more than one if you want to keep things interesting. But even better than suspects are suspects among suspects. Characters who are suspicious of each other. This creates layers of intrigue and complexity, not to mention more danger and forward momentum.

Because when characters get suspicious, they start digging. And when they dig, they usually find things meant to stay hidden.

Chapter Twenty-One

Just as she had last night, Isabel checked that the hallway was empty before slipping out of her room. She darted into the dark service stairwell, avoiding the brittle wooden railing, and crept down to the first-floor staff corridors.

The simple hallways reminded Isabel of going to work with her parents on weekends and summer vacations. Ana was a bartender at an upscale hotel where Daniel worked as a barback—that’s how they met. With the exorbitant rent in Manhattan, babysitters were a luxury they couldn’t afford. And after Isabel got kicked out of two different schools for having an “overactive imagination”—which she soon learned was bureaucratic speak for “lying”—her parents wanted to keep a closer eye on her.

While her mother would serve overpriced drinks to overindulged guests and her dad would race around restocking glasses and changing out kegs, Isabel would sit in the employee break room, reading books, disappearing into magical worlds where girls like her discovered they were long-lost princesses who had to be locked away because of dangerous abilities.

The service hallways of the monastery twisted and turned like a maze but Isabel navigated them with ease, using the mental map of the building she’d sketched yesterday. She had an uncanny knack for capturing images in her mind, like digital 3D renderings. “Magical powers,” she’d convinced the girls in her second-grade class. An “eidetic memory” was the official diagnosis by the school psychiatrist who’d warned her parents that it would probably diminish with age. But it had only gotten stronger. A blessing and a curse if you asked Isabel.

Mostly a curse nowadays.

Up until three months ago, her perfect memory had never failed her. Now it had swallowed up an entire night, leaving her with only hazy, jagged pieces of the truth.

mud sucking at her shoes—purple hair streaked with blood—the pond—the cottage—the door—

Isabel shook the memories loose and continued down the hallway. She arrived at the back office just as a quiet creaking pierced the silence. She whirled around, expecting to find someone behind her, but it was just Evelyn’s cat, quietly stalking something out of view.

“Haven’t you had enough blood for one day?” she whispered. Dexter flicked his tail in response.

Exhaling, she tried the handle. It was unlocked—not surprising. Most people trusted writers. What real harm could they do besides write you into a book and then kill you off? But Isabel knew the truth. Writers were the least trustworthy people of all. They lied for a living.

She shut the door behind her, the quiet click echoing like a gunshot in her ears. Sunlight bled through the tiny windows, illuminating a neatly organized desk, an archaic printer wedged in the corner between an aged bookshelf and metal filing drawers, and a large cabinet set against the far wall, secured with a combination padlock.

She hurried toward it, chest tight at the thought of what she was about to do. She reached into her pocket and touched the cool metallic surface of McCloud’s wedding ring. She had to get rid of this thing. Fast. And there was only one place it belonged.

Closing her eyes, she rewound the sequence of picture-perfect images in her memory until she arrived at yesterday afternoon. Standing in the foyer dripping wet, flipping through the black binder she’d found on the table. Her mind zoomed in on the details she’d captured at a glance—guest room assignments, to-do lists, and most important, passwords and lock combinations.

She opened her eyes and rolled the four metal dials into place.

1-3-9-2

The padlock clicked.

Inside the cabinet, rows of brass keys hung from a pegboard under corresponding room numbers. Her gaze landed on the hook for room 307. And her stomach dropped.

It was empty.

The spare key to Ian McCloud’s room was gone.

The office started to spin. Nausea crept up. This was turning into such a disaster! Why did she have to take his wedding ring?

The moment she saw it, something had snapped inside her. That fire had coursed through her veins again, muting her thoughts and taking control of her body.

That temper of yours, mija. It’s going to be the death of you, her mother used to say.

To which Isabel would always jokingly reply, No, Mami. I’m way too feisty to die. If anything, it’ll be the death of someone else.

Her mother never found it funny. Isabel didn’t find it funny anymore either.

She pulled McCloud’s wedding ring from her pocket and glared at it, feeling the same rage that had pulsed through her last night when she’d clutched it in her trembling hand. This empty symbol of fidelity. A fucking farce. And his initials carved into the metal—not I.M., as his fans knew him, but R.S.

It wasn’t unusual for authors to publish under a pen name, but Isabel wondered how many people knew Ian McCloud’s real name. Was it common knowledge or did he only whisper it to the women he lured into his bed? To make them feel special. Like he was stripping away the famous façade just for them.

She rotated the ring until the engraving inside caught the light from the window.

M.S. + R.S.

The same letters stabbed into the pages of the diary she kept hidden under her bed.

He made promises he never intended to keep.

I thought I was special, but he does it to all of them.

Mami warned me about men like R.S. When will I ever learn?

Taking this ring had been a stupid rookie mistake. Because Isabel was a rookie. That was the problem. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t a mystery writer like everyone else. She didn’t spend her days conjuring up ways to kill people and get away with it. This was all new to her and she was terrible at it. She’d already made mistake after mistake.

Including, apparently, not locking the office door behind her, because a moment later, the knob turned and the door opened.

Back in his room, Darius studied the flash drive, that exhilarating hum pulsing through his body again.

Marlow Griggs described a similar sensation when pursuing a lead on a case. A gentle buzzing beneath his skin, like a subwoofer booming in the next room. Griggs refused to call it a hunch—“Detectives don’t have hunches, they have evidence”—but everyone knew that’s exactly what it was. Decades of investigative experience condensed to a single pulsing rhythm of clarity.

Darius didn’t have decades of investigative experience, but he had something else: an analytical mind when it came to murder mysteries. His mother called it a waste of talent. But some of his YouTube subscribers called it a “sixth sense for plot.” It wasn’t anything magical or paranormal, though. There was a universal order to story structure, rules that Darius understood on a level most people overlooked. It meant he could predict plot twists long before they arrived.

In other words, he already knew what was on this flash drive. He could see it as clearly as if it were laid out on the pages of a mystery novel.

I’m struggling with a new book…It contains dark truths…

This flash drive held Ian McCloud’s secret manuscript.

A cool gust of wind made him shiver. Darius rushed to close the balcony door. Outside in the driveway, two floors below, Alastair was hunched over the open hood of his car, muttering a torrent of British swear words.

Darius sat down at the desk and carefully inserted the flash drive into his battered old laptop. His finger hovered over the power button. It felt more like the launch button for a missile silo. What kind of havoc would he unleash by exposing these “dark truths”?

He withdrew his finger, his certainty suddenly replaced by something colder, grittier. A familiar fear that had followed him like a shadow through so much of his life.

Don’t try unless you’re certain you can win.

It wasn’t the kind of quote you put on a motivational poster, yet it was a sentiment that had been hanging on Darius Walker’s mental wall since he was a child. When you’re the only offspring of the famous tech prodigy Claudia Walker, you don’t get points for effort. There were no participation trophies in his mother’s world. And even when you win, it only means the bar wasn’t set high enough. Darius spent the majority of his life running in that hamster wheel, taking the classes she wanted him to take, hanging out with the people she wanted him to be friends with, showing up at school with a 102-degree fever to maintain his perfect attendance record.

But how could he not, after everything his parents had done to bring him into this world? All that money spent to conceive him. The miracle child that doctors insisted would never materialize. How could he waste his precious life doing anything other than what she wanted?

At least that’s how he used to think. Until ten years ago, when he decided to blow up his perfectly planned life and become a writer. A mistake that still haunted him.

Darius thought about Ian McCloud sitting in that freezer. The emptiness in his eyes. The gray pallor of the waterlogged wound on his head. And Darius started to cry. Not for the drunk asshole he’d met here, but for the man who had reached out to him three years ago, in an email praising his analysis of Burning the Bones on YouTube. The man who, over the course of weekly, then daily emails, had become a friend and confidant. Someone who believed in Darius when it felt like no one else did. Including himself.

As Darius reached back toward the laptop, he vowed he was doing this for the Ian McCloud he knew. The friend who had asked him for help.

The truth must come out…I’m ready to get to work if you are.

And Darius was ready to get to work.

He plunged his finger down on the power button.

Isabel dove under the desk, her heart hammering as footsteps creaked on the old wooden floorboards of the office, moving with purpose, with haste.

Metal clinked softly—the jangling of keys. Isabel pressed herself farther back, listening, waiting. The footsteps crossed the room once more, pausing beside the desk.

She held her breath. Seconds ticked by, an eternity. Her lungs burned. Blood rushed into her ears, surely loud enough to give her away.

Then, mercifully, the footsteps retreated and the office door clicked shut.

Still, Isabel couldn’t move. She stayed curled in a ball, breathing hard, the faint scent of tobacco in the air—Lucky Strikes, just like her dad used to smoke when he was stressed, most of the time because of something she did. Suddenly, Isabel felt like she was eight years old again, hiding from her father’s disapproving scowl after the principal called to report another “incident.” A food fight in the cafeteria. Madison Cooper’s pigtail lying on the art room floor. A fire alarm pulled during a standardized test. No matter how creative Isabel got with her lies—my tray slipped, her hair was caught in the zipper, it must have been a ninja—her father always saw through them.

You’re a bad girl, Izzy.

Isabel knew her dad resented her before she even knew what the word meant.

He doesn’t like me, Mami.

Don’t be ridiculous, mija. He’s your father. He loves you.

But he never said it. And when he walked out on them a month after her ninth birthday, that’s when she knew for sure.

Isabel could still hear her parents’ angry whispers through the too-thin walls of their tiny apartment.

You’re too easy on her, Ana. If you don’t punish her, she’ll never learn.

She’s nine years old, Daniel. It’s just a phase. She’ll grow out of it.

I’m not sure I can wait that long.

The next morning, he was gone. No note. No goodbye. Just an empty dresser where his clothes used to be.

Later that day, Mami took her to breakfast at the diner around the corner—a special treat Isabel knew they couldn’t afford. Especially now. She watched her mother absentmindedly stir her coffee, her voice hollow like she was repeating an old prayer she no longer believed in.

“When I found out I was going to have you, I was so happy, but also so scared. We both thought getting married was the right thing. I didn’t know what kind of father he would be but…” She stared at the door, as if expecting him to walk back into their lives. “Oh, mija. He tried so hard to be a good dad. But not everyone is cut out to be a parent. In the end, he just couldn’t handle it.”

Even at nine years old, Isabel understood the euphemism—the careful substitution of a gentler word for a harsher one. Her mother had said it, but what she really meant was you.

And in that moment, Isabel realized her mother was a liar too.

Get up! she scolded herself now. Get out before anyone else comes.

With a shuddering breath, she crawled out from beneath the desk and darted to the door. But something out of the corner of her eye stopped her short.

The key cupboard was closed and locked. Hadn’t she left it open?

Curious, Isabel crept back to the cabinet and dialed in the combination again. A shiver whispered down her spine. The key to Ian McCloud’s room was back, hanging innocently from its hook, as if it had never left.

Darius jabbed at the power button again. And again. Still, nothing happened.

Because his laptop was dead.

He let out a roar of frustration, wanting to throw the useless piece of shit out the window and watch it shatter on the cobblestone path below. The emotion surprised him. It had been so long since he’d felt anything other than that low-pulsing, stomach-twisting terror he carried around with him like a piece of hand luggage. It was almost refreshing.

He opened his backpack and dumped the contents on the bed. Surely he’d remembered to pack his portable battery. But as he raked through the piles of notebooks and pens and index cards, his despair and desperation mounted.

Why hadn’t he just bought a new laptop when he had the chance? To hell with his mother’s nosy questions about where he got the money. She was already skeptical about how a “failed novelist” managed to pay rent; he hadn’t wanted to invite any more suspicion. Once again, his damn fear had paralyzed him and now he was paying the price.

Worse yet, someone might be getting away with murder!

He yanked the flash drive out of his laptop and glared at it, as if he could somehow see through the metal and silicon and penetrate the electric field of the tiny memory chip inside.

“Damn!” He needed power. He needed a laptop with a charge. He needed…

His gaze landed on his copy of The Bestseller Formula lying on the bed. He sat down and flipped to the chapter about Step 4, quickly locating the right page. Even though the words were burned into his memory—like every other page—he felt a small thrill as he read them.

Shortly after the First Investigation kicks off, the sleuth realizes they can’t do it alone and eventually teams up with a sidekick—also called the “helper character.” Ideally this should be someone with a special skill set that lends itself to the case. Not only does the helper character assist the detective in solving the mystery, they also offer support—whether that be practical or emotional—and sometimes even serve as a love interest.

Yes! That’s exactly what Darius needed. All good detectives have sidekicks. Marlow Griggs had had twenty-five over the course of thirty novels. It was clear Darius needed support. Practical, definitely. Emotional, probably, but he wasn’t about to let himself open that can of worms.

Buoyed by his new idea, Darius pocketed the flash drive and burst into the hallway, crashing to a halt at the sight of a woman sitting on the floor, knees tucked into her chest, crying.

“Simone?”

She looked up, revealing a red, splotchy face and puffy eyes.

“What are you…” He glanced up and down the corridor. “Is your room in this wing?”

She sniffled. “No. I was on my way to my room and I just…Oh god!” She launched to her feet and collided with Darius, throwing her arms around him and sobbing against his shoulder. “It all just hit me at once, you know? Seeing him there…in that pool. And then thinking of him rotting away in that…that…” Her body shook as the tears swallowed her words.

Darius couldn’t move. He felt as stiff as the corpse in that freezer. Was he supposed to hug her back? Where on earth would he put his hands? He felt her pillowy breasts shoving against him and the inner wirings of his brain sparked and glitched. “Uh…” He tried for a gentle shoulder pat. “Do you want me to walk you to your room?”

The instant he said the words, he regretted them. He had to stop being so damn accommodating. Marlow Griggs would never let a crying woman turn him into such a pile of goo, especially if she was a key suspect.

She shook her head, wiping her weepy face on the shoulder of his button-down. “No, thank you. You’re so sweet.” She took a cleansing breath. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me. Oh dear. Look at your shirt.” She reached out and dabbed the wet spot.

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, stepping out of her reach. Her bottom lip quivered like she might cry again. “Okay, well, I’ll see you around.”

He took off down the hallway, feeling slightly guilty, but he didn’t have time to listen to Simone Prescott bemoan her dead lover again. A flash drive with incriminating evidence—possibly incriminating her—was burning a hole in his pocket. And he needed someone to help him read it.

But who would that person be? Who could he trust? Or at least trust enough?

The moment he asked the question, one particular face shimmered into focus in his mind. Surprisingly, it brought with it a hint of a smile.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The key to Ian McCloud’s room felt like a brick in Isabel’s pocket. She eased open the office door and listened for footsteps in the service hallway, fear gripping her throat. What the hell was she doing, stealing the key to a dead man’s hotel room? Had she lost her mind? But there was no other way. She had to get rid of his wedding ring.

She slipped into the silent hallway and softly closed the door behind her. This conference had seemed like such a good idea when the invitation from Pen Ultimate Writers had arrived two weeks ago.

…we have a last-minute opening at our annual mystery writers’ conference. We’d love for you to join us.

She’d assumed it had been sent by mistake. A mystery writers’ conference? She didn’t write mystery. But then she saw who was scheduled to speak and wondered if it was some kind of sign.

“Oh good, I was looking for you.”

The voice startled her back to the hallway, where Isabel was still gripping the doorknob. “Darius.” She moved her hand to her chest. “You scared me.”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Please don’t hip check me again.”

She rolled her eyes. “It was a hip throw. Not a hip check. And stop sneaking up on me.”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I was—” His gaze pivoted between Isabel and the sign on the door she was currently trying to block with her body. “What were you doing in the office?”

“I, um…” She smoothed down the pocket of her baggy pants, making sure the bulky brass key was not jutting out. “I was looking for Jade. I thought she might be in here, but it’s locked.” She pretended to give the knob a turn and rattled the door for good measure.

Darius’s brow furrowed with that look of deep concentration that had become his default expression ever since their keynote speaker turned up dead.

“Why were you looking for me?” she asked quickly.

“Oh. I…” He faltered, like he’d lost his train of thought. His dark eyes looked tired. Bloodshot. “I came to ask for your help.”

She startled, her surprise mixed with a trace of terror. “My help? With what?”

He looked to the ground, hesitating. Isabel’s stomach churned. Whatever help he was asking for, she would definitely say no. She had to say no.

“I found something at the hot springs,” Darius finally said. “A flash drive. I think McCloud had it in his possession when he died.”

A lump formed in her throat. “A flash drive? What’s on it?”

“I don’t know,” he said after a long pause that suggested he did know or at least had a suspicion he wasn’t sharing. “But I think it might prove that his death wasn’t an accident.”

His words tumbled through her mind. Not an accident—

dried in her hair—soaked into her clothes—“What have you done?”—

All her former resolve not to get involved evaporated like mist on the surface of the hot springs. She had to know what was on that drive.

“My laptop battery is dead,” Darius went on. “I was hoping I could use yours—”

“C’mon.” She tugged at his sleeve. “My computer’s in my room.”

I’ve never thought of myself as a matchmaker, but I suppose technically it’s what I am. As a writer—a student of the human psyche—I have a knack for pairing people together. It’s a skill you develop after writing for a while. You get a sense for where friendship or romance might blossom.

After all, you can’t just throw two random people together and expect them to develop feelings for each other. They have to be the right two people with character traits and backstories that either complement or contrast. Secrets buried in their past that will draw them closer together…and drive them apart.

It also helps if you give them a common goal—something tangible for them to chase after. This is sometimes called the MacGuffin.

The term was popularized by Alfred Hitchcock in the mid–twentieth century. The MacGuffin typically describes an object whose primary function is to propel the plot forward. Characters are driven to pursue the MacGuffin with great intensity, thinking it’s the key to everything they seek.

This may or may not turn out to be true.

Because the interesting thing about MacGuffins is that they are rarely as significant as they’re made out to be. In fact, the actual contents or details of the MacGuffin are usually not as important as the momentum they give the story.

In other words, it’s just another way to get people to do what you want.

“So, where should we sit?” Darius glanced around Isabel’s room, which looked like an explosion in a garment factory. Her duffel bag was open and empty on the floor and her clothes were everywhere, strewn across the carpet, the desk, the back of the chair. It was the kind of mess that should have made a neat freak like him nervous, but it only intrigued him.

“Sorry,” she said, hastily trying to clean up. “My luggage always seems to vomit the moment I arrive in a new place.”

Darius laughed politely as if he could relate, which of course, he couldn’t.

“It’s funny,” Isabel said as she gathered up a heap of clothes and stuffed them into the duffel bag. “I’ve been used for a lot of things in my life, but never for my battery power.”

Heat flooded Darius’s cheeks. “I’m not…That’s not…”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Relax. I was kidding.”

He tried for a breath. It didn’t go well.

Isabel tilted her head. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No,” Darius said, just as his watch buzzed with an elevated pulse alert. “I mean, this whole place makes me nervous.”

“Me, too.” She zipped up the bag and kicked it into the closet. “Everyone here is just so…”

“Weird?”

“Well, they’re writers, so that’s a given, but I was going to say on edge. Like they’re all walking bags of anxiety.”

“Like you said, they’re writers.”

Isabel laughed. It was a delightful sound that lasted only a second before they were both plunged back into reality.

She scooped up a pile of loose manuscript pages that were scattered across the unmade bed. “I was trying to work last night. It was a lost cause.”

Darius remembered her forced confession this morning. Not a mystery writer. The author of a young adult fantasy series with an unfinished final book. Was that important somehow?

“So, what made you want to write fantasy?”

She shrugged. “It’s what I always read as a kid. I suppose I like the escape of it. The power of being able to construct the world exactly the way you want it.”

“Ah, a control freak,” Darius teased.

“C’mon,” she said, pulling the bedsheets up to the pillows. “You can’t tell me you don’t love playing God when you’re writing fiction?”

He hesitated. “I guess. It’s been a while since I’ve written. The YouTube channel keeps me pretty busy.”

She crawled across the comforter, giving him a better-than-perfect view of her better-than-perfect backside. His cheeks flushed as he looked away.

“Okay, that’s better. We can sit here.” She patted the bed and Darius’s mouth went dry. Why did he always turn into such a puddle in these situations? She was just a woman. A very beautiful woman whose hair smelled like lavender, but still. A man was dead, for crying out loud. This was not the time for lavender hazes.

He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. “Um. Sure.”

They sat shoulder to shoulder on the edge of the bed as Isabel pulled her sleek gray laptop onto her thighs, opened the lid, and typed in her password. His gaze was immediately drawn to the tattoo winding up her right forearm. The same design that appeared on her books.

“What does the symbol mean?” he asked as the laptop booted up.

She ran a finger across the fiery halo and crisscrossing blades that protected the drop of blood at the center. “My series is about heritage and identity. The power of the blood that runs in our veins.”

“Is that why it’s called Blood of Fire?”

“Yeah. The fire represents passion and vengeance. But it’s also a literal form of magic in my world. When my main character discovers she can wield it, she wonders how much her destiny is predetermined by her heritage—her blood.”

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to her wrist.

She nodded, extending her arm toward him. He slowly traced the intricate design, marveling at the warmth beneath his touch. It was enough to ignite a flame inside him that mirrored the one inked into her skin. Isabel’s breath caught.

He found her gaze and suddenly description writing was no longer his weakness. Her dark eyes glowed like obsidian in starlight, fathomless yet full of secrets. He could describe them all day.

“You’re vibrating,” she said.

“What?”

She pointed to his smartwatch, which was buzzing with a stress alert. Heat filled his cheeks. “Oh, that’s just…” He swatted at the screen. “It’s nothing, I—”

DING!

They both startled and turned toward the laptop, now fully booted up.

Isabel withdrew her arm. “Do you have the drive?”

He reached for his pocket but froze when his gaze landed on the nightstand drawer. It was slightly ajar and inside he could just make out the edge of a crumpled white bag. The kind they give you at a pharmacy. Without thinking, he leaned closer.

The drawer slammed shut, causing him to jump. “I’m sorry,” he rushed to say. “I wasn’t…That was rude—”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted. “I…um, often have trouble sleeping. Sometimes I take pills.”

“Oh. Right,” Darius said. “Me, too. I mean the sleeping part, not the pill part. I did take pills once, about ten years ago, but I didn’t like the way they made me feel. I woke up in strange places.”

She went oddly still for a moment and then held out her hand for the drive. “Ready?”

He wasn’t, but he nodded anyway and reached into his pocket.

The flash drive wasn’t there.

Step 5

“The Maze of Misdirection”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Simone was breathless by the time she reached the top of the north bell tower. According to the floor plan in her welcome packet, it was the highest point in the monastery, accessible only by a rickety staircase that spiraled up from the fourth floor.

She pushed open the heavy crimson door and stepped onto the belfry, gazing out at the magnificent 360-degree view of the valley below. It felt almost ceremonious, what she was about to do. A breaking of things. An ending of things. The final chapter of a story wrapped up with a shiny red bow.

No, shiny red bows were overused.

Wrapped up with a flourish was a bit more sophisticated-sounding. Yeah, she liked that.

Simone opened her clenched fist to reveal the flash drive tucked inside. After seeing Darius through the dining room window, she’d followed him to the hot springs and arrived just in time to watch him scoop up the drive and slip it into his pocket, looking so damn proud of himself.

Stealing it had been embarrassingly easy. Simone knew men like Darius Walker. How nervous they got around women like her. Especially when those women were crying and helpless and pressed just the right body parts against them in just the right way.

Simone was far from helpless, but she played the role well. Maybe it was from her years of modeling, of photographers calling out directions like “Can you look a bit more vulnerable, darling?” and “You’re exposed and feeling weak and defenseless!” Women were allowed to be pretty as long as they were also fragile. Otherwise, it was just too much.

Something creaked behind her and Simone spun around, squinting into the shadowy recesses of the belfry. For a moment, she thought she saw movement. Her stomach clenched.

“Hello?” she called out and immediately felt foolish. It was probably just Evelyn’s bloodthirsty cat creeping around.

Turning back, she squeezed the flash drive in her hand, trying to infuse it with all of her anger, all of her passion, all the guilt over the things she’d done for the man she loved.

The man she thought had loved her back.

McCloud had strung her along for more than five years, making her believe she was special. More than just a convenient hookup along a tour route.

She closed her eyes as her grip tightened around the flash drive. She could feel the sharp edges digging into her skin, reminding her of all the pain she’d endured to get here. The darkness she’d waded into for him.

I need your help, Simone. You’re my rock. My everything. I’m innocent. You have to believe me.

Don’t worry, my love. I’ll take care of it.

When Simone opened her eyes, she saw drops of blood on her hand. The flash drive had dug in too deep. Just as she’d done with Ian, she’d held on too tightly. Squeezing and squeezing until the skin broke.

“No more,” she vowed, speaking to the vast mountain vista. “You’re free now.”

She cocked her arm back, ready to toss the drive into the great abyss, ready to finally move on.

“There you are!” came an angry, breathless voice behind her.

Simone startled and quickly stuffed the flash drive into her bra before turning to find Bennett at the top of the spiral staircase, hanging on to the handrail as he wheezed.

“What the fuck are you doing up here?” he asked through ragged breaths.

“I could ask the same thing of you.”

“I was looking for you. I’ve been all over this fucking place.”

She sighed. “Are you capable of uttering a single sentence without the word fuck in it? For someone who prides himself on his literary voice, I would expect a bit more creativity.”

“Hemingway said fuck all the time. It was his favorite word.”

“Ah, so you’re comparing yourself to Hemingway now? You do love the smell of your own literary flatulence.” She crossed her arms over her chest, guarding her secret. “What do you want?”

Bennett took a step toward her, his eyes so dark and beguiling, she could almost feel herself being pulled into them. “I think we might be able to help each other.”

“I had it. It was in my pocket. I put it right here. Didn’t I?”

Isabel watched Darius run his hands up and down his pants like a TSA agent conducting a pat down on himself.

“I picked it up at the hot springs. I put it in my pocket. I went to my room. I definitely had it then because I plugged it into my laptop, which was dead.”

Isabel tried to look interested. She pinched her brows in what she hoped resembled a confused scowl. Meanwhile, she was screaming at herself.

How could you be so careless? How could you forget to close the nightstand drawer? Imagine if he’d opened it! Imagine if he’d grabbed the bag before you could stop him?

“That’s when I decided to come find you,” Darius went on, pacing back and forth in front of the nightstand. Isabel really wished he’d do his pacing somewhere else. Although right now, nowhere in this room felt safe. She still had McCloud’s wedding ring in her pocket, and she’d stashed the spare key to his room in her duffel bag while she was picking up clothes from the floor. Now, somehow, she had to find a way to get rid of both.

“I knocked on your door but you weren’t there,” Darius was saying, “so I went downstairs to look for you and that’s when I found you in the staff hallway…” He trailed off as his gaze cut sharply to Isabel, his eyes wide with revelation.

Isabel’s heart stopped.

“Simone.”

And started again.

“She was outside my room,” he went on. “Before I went downstairs. She was crying and then…” He collapsed onto the bed and buried his face in his hands. “Oh god, I’m such an idiot.”

Isabel wasn’t following but she was too relieved to care. “You’re not an idiot.”

“I am!” he cried. “She played me. She must have seen me pick up the drive. So she waited until I was alone, disarmed me with her tears and her vulnerability and her breasts! And like an idiot, I fell for it.” His watch buzzed and he swatted the alert away. “Why the hell did I think I could do this? I’m not Marlow Griggs. I’m not a detective. I’m just a failed novelist. A failed everything. I lost the one lead I had. The one clue.”

Not knowing what else to do, Isabel rubbed Darius’s back awkwardly. She wasn’t used to dealing with emotional men who expressed their frustrations aloud, men who cried. Was he crying? It was hard to tell. There were plenty of sensitive men in her books. The primary love interest was a crown prince who talked openly about his feelings. But she wrote fantasy.

The watch buzzed again. Darius tapped to silence it before lifting his head. He was not, in fact, crying and Isabel felt only a twinge of disappointment. But his eyes looked exhausted.

“Sorry, it’s my sleep deficit alarm.” He gestured to his wrist. “When I don’t get enough sleep, I can get a little…” He hesitated, as if trying to find the right word. “Unstable.”

“Maybe you should get some rest?”

He shook his head and stood up. “There’s no way I could sleep now. The motive is on that flash drive—I’m positive—and I have to find out what it is.”

“The motive for murder?”

“Yes. Two of the most popular motives are revenge and secrecy. There’s something on that flash drive Simone doesn’t want found. Why else would she steal it from me?”

Isabel’s brows pinched together. “So you think Simone killed McCloud?”

The watch buzzed a third time, but Darius ignored it. His tired, bloodshot eyes were already sparkling with a new idea, a new lead. “I don’t know for certain. But I’m going to find out.”

Unstable is one word to describe Darius when he doesn’t get enough sleep. I think a better word would be unhinged.

You see, Darius has a history of becoming…obsessive. It started when he was young, desperately trying to impress his unimpressible mother. Then, ten years ago, when he was eighteen, he discovered a secret about his past, and his relentless search for the truth nearly got him killed.

The point is, when Darius sets his mind to something, he has a hard time letting it go. But that’s one of the reasons I chose him—along with his extensive knowledge of murder investigations.

Obsession is a highly desirable quality in a detective. You want someone who won’t give up. Who will relentlessly dig and dig until they find what they’re looking for. The truth I need to reveal is buried deep and Darius has a giant shovel.

The longer I keep him awake—destroying his precious sleep hygiene—the more unhinged and obsessive and controllable he’ll become.

You’re starting to dislike me now, aren’t you? You think I’m cruel and heartless and manipulative, toying with these people’s delicate psyches for my own benefit.

What can I say? This is what makes for a good story.

Detectives should always be a little unstable, dangerously skating the edge of self-destruction, so that with a single well-timed push, they can tumble right over it. That’s how you keep raising the stakes, escalating the danger, twisting the tension like a tightened screw. Why do you think so many fictional detectives have drinking problems, secret drug addictions, workaholism, histories of trauma? It’s all intentional. When the detective has something to lose from the case, the case becomes that much more significant to the reader.

So, in other words, my dear friend, I’m doing this all for you.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Darius’s eyelids were as heavy as lead curtains. He gripped the banister and shakily descended the monastery’s front steps. Beneath his feet, the stairs seemed to stretch and warp, turning each step into a dangerous gamble.

Get a grip! he told himself. The last time he’d been this tired, he’d woken up in a ditch covered in bruises. But he couldn’t afford to sleep now. He’d already made a huge mistake. He had to redeem himself.

“How’s it going with the car?” Darius asked Alastair as he and Isabel made their way to the circular drive where the agent was crouched over the engine of his Jaguar. “Make any progress?”

Alastair stood up. “Not really. Could be the alternator, maybe a bad spark plug.” He glanced between Darius and Isabel. “I don’t suppose either of you moonlights as an auto mechanic?”

They shook their heads.

“Then what the bloody hell do you want? I’m a tad busy here.”

“Actually, we were hoping to ask you a few questions,” Darius began, flinching slightly under Alastair’s scrutinizing glare. “About Simone Prescott.”

The agent’s eyes sparked with intrigue. “Ah, the mistress. You’re on to her now, are you?”

Darius stammered, looking to Isabel for help.

“We’re just gathering information,” she said casually. Darius was impressed. For a non-mystery writer, she caught on quickly.

“Well, it’s about time.” Alastair stepped back from the hood and wiped his hands on a rag hanging from his pocket. “The woman’s got guilty written all over her.”

“Can you tell us about her relationship with McCloud?” Darius asked.

Alastair nodded, as if he approved of this line of inquiry. “A total mess, those two. On-again, off-again. Back and forth. But well matched. They were both using each other for something.”

“What do you mean?” asked Isabel, that adorable crease appearing between her brows.

“She needed his fame, his connections, his validation. Very insecure, that one. Can’t say I blame her, though. Growing up in the beauty pageant world, then the modeling world, she’s used to being valued for her looks. She probably thought she’d get more from McCloud, but she was wrong.”

“So you’re saying McCloud only valued her for her looks?” asked Darius.

“Not just her looks,” Alastair corrected. He bent down to rifle through the toolbox, shoving aside a pile of wooden dowels to unearth a wrench. “She was kind of like his editor.”

“She edited his books?” asked Isabel, surprised.

“No, not his books. His life. His public image. She cleaned up his messes.”

Darius leaned forward. “What kind of messes?”

Alastair bent over the engine compartment again. “Various things. Drunk tweets. Embarrassing photos. Conflicts with toxic fans.” He tightened a few bolts with the wrench. “Whenever something went wrong, he’d call her and she’d swoop in to take care of it. She would somehow find a way to paint McCloud as the hero instead of the villain. She was very good at it. But I doubt she received the appreciation she thought she deserved.” He stood and locked eyes with Darius, as if making extra sure he was listening. “I imagine she believed she was due some compensation for her efforts.”

Darius’s spine tingled at the implication. “You mean like two million dollars?”

Alastair raised his wrench like he was surrendering a weapon. “Hey, you said it, not me.”

Darius recognized the deflection strategy. This kind of thing happened in Detective Griggs’s interviews all the time. “Why did McCloud think you stole that money from him?”

Alastair sighed and opened the driver’s side door. “He’s become terribly paranoid over the past couple years. I’ve gotten used to the late-night phone calls, the drunken rants, this person is stalking me, this one’s going to sue me, et cetera, et cetera.” He lowered into the driver’s seat with a grunt. “Then, a few days ago, he calls me up—drunk off his face, of course—and starts rambling that he knows about the missing money and knows I stole it.” He turned the key in the ignition, but nothing happened. The engine didn’t even attempt to turn over.

“Why did he think there was money missing?” asked Darius.

“Because he’s a wanker!” Alastair exclaimed. “He said he found discrepancies between his royalty statements and the bank deposits from my agency and calculated that, for the past three months, twenty percent of all royalties and advances were being skimmed off the top.”

“Isn’t that typical in traditional publishing?” Isabel asked. “The agent takes a commission?”

“Fifteen percent,” Alastair corrected. “But this was on top of that.”

“And it’s not true?” Isabel asked.

“Of course not.” Alastair stood up and dropped the wrench into the toolbox. “The twenty percent wasn’t ‘skimmed.’ It was deposited into another account, on his request. I dug up the direct deposit authorization form that he signed and emailed to the finance department three months ago. But when I tried to show it to him, he went mental and accused me of forging it to cover my ass.”

“You think he got drunk and forgot he signed it?” asked Darius, thinking of the inebriated man he’d met last night who barely remembered Darius despite three years of email correspondence.

“Either that or someone else forged it.” Alastair rooted around for another tool.

“And the finance department didn’t ask him about it when they received it?” said Isabel.

Alastair shrugged. “Not a big enough change to raise any red flags. Authors redistribute payments all the time. ‘I want ten percent to go to my kid’s college fund, and fifteen percent to go to my investment account,’ et cetera. McCloud himself has sent in dozens of those forms over the years. They didn’t think anything of it.”

“But how does twenty percent add up to two million in only three months?” Darius’s mind struggled to do the math. “I mean, I know McCloud’s books sell well. But that seems like a lot.”

“It is.” Alastair pulled out a pair of pliers and pointed them at Darius. “That’s the point. On any normal month you’d have your various royalty statements—U.S. and international—maybe an advance on foreign rights and some movie residuals, but these weren’t normal months. Ian had just signed a five-picture movie deal to adapt his backlist and a four-book deal with his publisher. There were huge payments coming down the pipeline. Whoever set up the transfer must have known that.”

“Like Simone?” Isabel asked eagerly, clearly being pulled into the rush of the investigation.

Alastair raised a brow. “Have you noticed how many times she’s mentioned that stolen money and accused me?”

Darius thought back to the morning’s events. Alastair was right. Every time the opportunity arose to point fingers, Simone’s was aimed right at Alastair. “Couldn’t you just look up who owns the account the money was sent to?”

Alastair pretended to smack himself in the head with the pliers. “Oh, brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that? The account is offshore. Set up in Belize, under the name McCloud Asset Holdings LLC. That was the only name on the direct deposit form, along with an account number and routing number.” Wielding his pliers, he ducked back under the hood, as if the conversation were over, but then popped up a moment later. “However, if the direct deposit form was forged, it would have to be by someone close to him. How else would they get access to his email and signature?”

“What about his wife?” Darius asked, reflecting on how little he knew about Megan, apart from the fact that she’d moved to France to escape the limelight of her husband’s career.

“Unlikely,” said Alastair with a snort. “Ian said she’s the one who noticed the discrepancy and told him about it in the first place. Besides, she doesn’t need the money. Ian set her up extremely well in France. Probably to ease his own guilt.” He glanced briefly at Isabel before disappearing back under the hood, his voice muffled as he called out, “If I were you, I’d keep looking at the mistress!”

“Do you believe him?” Isabel asked Darius once they were back inside.

“I don’t know,” Darius replied. “But he did give me one clue.”

Isabel’s brow arched. “What’s that?”

“He told me where to go next.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Darius aimed his flashlight into the dark recesses of the cabinet. The monastery’s laundry room looked like it might have once been a small storage area or cellarium, but now the cramped, windowless space was filled with an industrial-size washer and dryer, tall storage cabinets, and modern metal shelving that contrasted sharply with the ancient stone walls.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Isabel whispered as Darius closed the cabinet door and opened the next one.

“Yes,” Darius said while inside his mind was screaming No!

But once again, he felt like he was being piloted by something more powerful and profound than his own mind. An energizing force that was somehow able to overshadow all his fears, all his fatigue, and push him to do things he’d never done before. Never thought he could have done.

Like sneak into a dead man’s hotel room.

“What exactly are you hoping to find in McCloud’s room?” Isabel opened a compartment of the large housekeeping cart and peered inside. “Got ’em.” She pulled out a new box of rubber cleaning gloves and passed it to Darius.

“His laptop,” Darius replied. “Alastair said the direct deposit form was sent from McCloud’s email. I want to see if it’s still there.”

“Don’t you think whoever sent it would have deleted it?”

“My mom owns a cybersecurity company,” he said. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to truly delete things.”

Isabel stiffened. “So, do you think that’s also what’s on the flash drive? Proof that Simone stole the money?”

Darius hesitated, wondering if he should tell her about the secret book McCloud was working on, the one that was surely saved on that flash drive. But McCloud’s last email flickered through his mind, giving him pause.

I trust you. It’s others I’m wary about.

Ever since Darius and McCloud had started emailing three years ago, there had been an unspoken agreement of confidentiality between them. With every message Darius received, every emotional confession woven into the words, he upheld his end of that agreement. He never uttered a word about their relationship to anyone and always cross-checked his YouTube scripts against McCloud’s emails to ensure he hadn’t unintentionally let anything slip. Darius believed integrity still mattered in this world. There were inherent rules that should be followed. So he kept McCloud’s secrets.

“Maybe,” Darius said vaguely before plucking a pair of gloves from the box and handing it to Isabel. “But I’m hoping whatever is on the drive came from McCloud’s laptop and might still be on there. That’s why we need to get ahold of it.”

“We?” Isabel repeated with a hint of amusement. “So we’re a we now?”

“Aren’t we?” He tried for light, playful, but Isabel scowled at him.

“I hope you don’t think of me as your sidekick or anything.”

Darius swallowed. “Of course not.”

“Because that would be…” She raised her eyebrows, prompting him like a history tutor quizzing a pupil on an important date. Darius had had a massive crush on his history tutor.

“Sexist?” he guessed as he pulled on his first glove.

“I was going for belittling, but sexist works too.”

“Right. Well, good thing I don’t think of you as my sidekick, then.” He grinned, hoping to disarm her. He’d been told he had a disarming smile. Mostly by little old ladies, but still.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you think of me?”

He was completely disarmed. “Um.” Darius couldn’t seem to pull on the second glove. How big had his hand grown in the past five seconds? “I think of you as…” Don’t say pretty.

“Oh my god!” Isabel gasped. “You think I’m the helper character!”

“What?”

“From The Bestseller Formula. You think you’re the detective and I’m just the temporary side character who flits in and out of the story to offer support.” She gasped again. “You’re going to sleep with me and never speak to me again, aren’t you?”

Darius’s hand slipped. The overstretched rubber glove shot across the room like a classroom projectile. Isabel ducked as it whizzed by her head.

“That’s not—I don’t want—I mean, unless—Marlow Griggs never slept with his sidekicks.”

“But I’m not a sidekick,” she pointed out.

“Exactly,” he said, as if that settled everything, even though he was more confused than ever.

“And I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“Of course not.”

“Because I’m not a love interest, either,” Isabel asserted.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Darius plucked another glove from the box. Was it getting hotter in here?

“Because according to Jenna Blake, all good mystery novels should have a helper character, who often serves as the love interest.”

Darius finally managed to coax his hand into the second glove. “Well, good thing this isn’t a mystery novel, then.”

“Yes, good thing,” Isabel muttered before turning on her heel and striding back into the foyer, leaving Darius to scurry after her.

They were halfway to the stairs when a high-pitched noise froze them in their tracks. The sound hung in the air, teetering between a laugh and a scream. Darius and Isabel exchanged an anxious glance as they stood motionless, listening. But the foyer had fallen silent again. Cautiously, they continued toward the stairs, only to be stopped by the same noise, this time louder, more intense. A shrill shriek that echoed across the marble floors, sending a chill down Darius’s spine. He whirled around, his gaze stumbling over the maze of radiating corridors.

“This way,” Isabel said confidently. Darius stayed close on her heels, nearly crashing into her when she skidded to a halt in the doorway of the lounge.

She sucked in a sharp breath and Darius knew. Even without looking, he knew. His sixth sense for plot could see the twists before they came.

Someone else was dead.

Another high-pitched sound rippled out of the room, but this one had a different quality to it. It was decidedly lighter, more playful. Confused, Darius stepped out from behind Isabel and followed her gaze to a corner booth where Simone and Bennett were curled up together, giggling and pawing at each other like teenagers in love.

“You are so bad!” Simone squealed as Bennett whispered in her ear, then pressed his lips to her neck. She tilted her head back and moaned before capturing his mouth with hers and swinging her long legs onto his lap. Her tiny skirt rode up past her thigh and Bennett didn’t hesitate, dragging his hand across her knee, under the hem…

Okay, so Darius hadn’t seen that coming.

Simone pulled away from Bennett’s searching lips and peered out at her audience, noticing them for the first time. “Oh, hello, Darius. Isabel. Did you need something?” She eyed their gloved hands. “Are you cleaning?”

“How long have you—When did you—” was all Darius managed to get out.

“When did we hook up?” Simone asked. “Last night, actually. I was upset after my fight with Ian. Bennett came to my room to comfort me and…well…” She booped his nose.

“What can I say?” Bennett grinned. “I was irresistible.”

“B-b-but why didn’t you mention this earlier?” Darius stammered, trying to cram this new detail into his mental timeline. “When I asked you about last night, you said you went to McCloud’s room to make up but he wasn’t there and then you went to sleep.”

“I did,” Simone replied coyly. “I just didn’t say with whom.”

She gazed hungrily at Bennett before diving into his mouth like it was a swimming pool on a hot day. Bennett let out an animalistic groan as he visibly thrust his tongue down Simone’s throat. “Mmm,” she moaned.

Flustered and starting to sweat, Darius bolted from the room, his thoughts already swirling like the beginnings of a named storm. Bennett and Simone? McCloud’s assistant and his mistress?

“That was certainly unexpected,” Isabel said as if narrating his thoughts.

“Yes.” Darius struggled to slot this piece into place. How did it fit? Did it fit?

“Well, I guess that’s one mystery solved,” Isabel said as she made her way to the stairs. She glanced back long enough to flash him a coy smile. “We now know who the love interests are.”

“Eww. Stop.” Simone pushed Bennett off her and wiped his saliva from her neck. “They’re gone. You can stop mauling me now.”

“Do you think that was enough?” Bennett panted.

As Simone slid off his lap, she could feel this was not just an act for him. “Wouldn’t you love for me to say no?”

“Hey, you agreed to this.”

Simone sighed. “Why did I do that again?”

“Because eventually the police are going to show up and ask questions about what happened to McCloud. And neither of us has an alibi for last night.”

Simone climbed out of the booth and adjusted her skirt. “Honestly, I’m not sure why you’re worried. Alastair has the strongest motive for killing Ian.”

“What about the mistress he just broke up with?”

“We did not break up. It was only a fight. Besides, that doesn’t mean I killed him. If I murdered every man I had a fight with, I’d be a serial killer.”

Bennett sneered. “I think that’s what you should say to the police.”

“Shut up.”

“You have to admit, it gives you motive.”

“What? A broken heart?” She guffawed. “Please. This is the twenty-first century. Give women a little more credit. Believe it or not, we have a lot more to live for nowadays than men.”

“What about jealousy?” Bennett asked.

Simone crossed her arms. “I’m not jealous of anyone.”

He barked out a laugh. “Are you joking? I’ve seen the way you look at the Dying Violets.”

Revulsion coiled in Simone’s gut as images flashed, unbidden, through her mind: wisps of purple hair, kohl-rimmed eyes gleaming with obsession. “They show up at his house dressed like the murder victims in his book,” she spat. “It’s sick.”

“Exactly,” said Bennett. “And you made up a fake text from him, inviting you here. He said you were just as bad as the rest of them.”

“I didn’t make it up—Wait a minute, how do you know he said that?” Simone’s swollen lips curved into a grin. “You kinky little perv. You were listening to us again, weren’t you?”

Bennett’s face flushed. “What? No. No. That’s not…The walls here are very thin. Everyone heard.”

“Mm-hmm.” She leaned on the table, giving him an ample view down her low-cut top. “I know you used to listen to us from the adjoining room. I could always see it on your face the next morning, unable to look me in the eye without turning red, just like you’re doing now.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “You’re an attractive man, Bennett. You just need to lose the holier-than-thou vibe. Nothing turns off a woman more than a man who thinks he’s smarter than her.”

Bennett shoved her hand away. “This is serious. The police are going to question everyone, and I wasn’t the only one who heard that fight. Twenty-first century or not, you’re still the jilted lover and I am still the disgruntled assistant and we’ve both read enough mystery novels to know those are not the people you want to be in this story.”

Simone sighed and stood up. She hated that he was right. “Fine.”

“We just need to put on enough of a show so that our alibis hold water. No one will believe we spent last night together if the last thing people saw was us bickering at dinner.”

“You mean when you called me a stalker,” Simone sneered.

“After you called me a drama queen.”

She glanced at his crotch. “Well, your penis certainly is one.”

With a grunt, Bennett adjusted his pants. “I’d think you’d be flattered.”

“Normally, yes. But because it’s you, not really.”

Bennett rolled his eyes as he scooted out of the booth. “Well, you better get used to it. If the road hasn’t been cleared yet, we might have to keep this up through dinner.”

“Ugh. How am I supposed to eat?”

“I just want to be sure we leave a big enough impression on everyone. Our ‘relationship’ has to be included in multiple statements to the police.”

“So, in other words, actually have an orgasm at the dinner table?” Simone asked, deadpan, as they made their way out of the lounge.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Bennett replied, just as deadpan.

Simone couldn’t help but laugh.

Huh.

Simone and Bennett. Bennett and Simone. I admit, that pairing never crossed my mind. At least not as anything more than a staged diversion. But I sensed a genuine spark between them just now. I certainly wasn’t expecting it, but it does make a sick kind of sense. Like attracts like. Darkness attracts darkness. And both of them have been deeply corrupted by Ian McCloud. Why shouldn’t they connect over their mutual depravity?

Now that I see it play out, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I suppose I’ve been too busy tracking all the other plot threads: Marjorie’s absence, McCloud’s wedding ring, the stolen flash drive, the missing money.

But Bennett and Simone? I’m not sure what to do about them.

Normally, I don’t like surprises. I don’t like deviations from my plan. It can be a slippery slope. But I suppose, as long as their little flirtation doesn’t get in my way, I can let it run its course. By the time this is over and I’ve revealed all I set out to reveal, I doubt they’ll want much to do with each other anyway.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Darius stared down Ian McCloud’s door like an amateur thief sizing up his first bank vault.

“How exactly were you planning to get in?” Isabel asked. “Didn’t Jade say she had Marjorie lock it?”

“Any chance you know how to pick locks?” he asked with a raise of his brow.

Isabel crossed her arms. “No, but that’d be a very helpful trait for a helper character to have.”

“I never said—” Darius huffed. “Forget it.” He wrapped his gloved hand around the knob and gave it an inquisitive shake. To both of their surprises, the handle turned and the door creaked open. The sound reverberated down the hallway like wind through a desolate canyon. Darius froze and glanced at Isabel to confirm he hadn’t just imagined that. “It’s unlocked.”

“That’s weird.”

“Maybe Marjorie forgot to lock it.”

“Maybe.” Isabel didn’t look convinced.

“I should go first,” Darius said, even though he really didn’t want to. What if the killer was in there right now? Covering their tracks?

“Why you?” She arched a brow. “Because of your stellar track record in a fight?”

“Touché,” he said. “You should go first.”

Isabel pushed past him through the door. He hovered close behind, feeling his fear like a living, breathing thing, suddenly very grateful he’d chosen a tae kwon do black belt as his sidekick.

With every step, the wooden floorboards groaned beneath their feet. The air felt heavy, thick with a sense of uncertainty and danger. Behind them, something seemed to echo down the hallway, like the walls were whispering a warning to stay back. Stay out.

Darius held his breath, anxiously sweeping his gaze around the large corner room, trying to capture any noteworthy details. It was much bigger than his own, with nicer furniture and more expensive finishings, but other than that, there was absolutely nothing noteworthy about it.

“Let’s spread out,” he said. “Remember, we’re looking for a laptop.”

Slowly, methodically, they went to work, opening drawers and cabinets, peering under furniture and sheets. In the closet was McCloud’s arsenal of luggage, a massive collection of bags, each with the distinctive dagger-pen monogram on the luggage tag. But none contained a laptop.

Darius approached the rolltop secretary desk, holding his breath as he lifted the cover. It was empty apart from a collection of notecards and envelopes bearing the conference’s embossed logo. He thought of the message he’d received last night—I can’t shoulder the burden any longer. The truth must come out—and curiosity stirred in his chest.

He yanked open the desk drawer and rooted around until he located a pencil.

“What are you doing?” Isabel asked.

“I want to see if McCloud wrote any other notes.”

“Other notes?” she asked.

“I mean notes.”

Isabel peered over his shoulder as he slowly rubbed the pencil’s nib back and forth over the blank notecard on the top of the stack. “Didn’t Nancy Drew do this?” she asked.

“And Marlow Griggs,” he added, “in A Painted Alibi.”

Gradually, the impression from the last thing McCloud wrote revealed itself on the card. Darius squinted to read the words. “That…money…doesn’t…belong…to…you.”

He shivered. “Do you think he sent this to Simone?”

“Or Alastair,” said Isabel.

“Maybe.” Darius chewed his bottom lip. Something wasn’t feeling right. McCloud had already accused Alastair publicly. Why threaten him with a note? “Or maybe McCloud figured out who really stole the two million and sent this note to them.”

Isabel walked to the balcony and peered at the driveway three floors below, where Alastair was still bent over the engine of his car. “I don’t know if I buy Alastair’s story. He seemed too eager to share his theory about Simone. Like he was jumping at the chance to blame someone else for the missing money.” She opened the sliding door. “Should we search out here too?”

Darius glanced at the three-story drop and shuddered. “Why don’t you take that one?”

“Are you afraid of heights?” she asked, sounding amused.

“Among other things,” he muttered before ducking into the bathroom.

He scanned the array of bottles and tubes arranged neatly across the marble vanity next to a black toiletry kit that appeared to be empty. But when Darius peered inside, he saw two prescription pill bottles at the bottom of the bag.

Suddenly, that faint vibration was back, like a drummer tapping out a muffled beat on his bones. Through the fog hovering around his brain, a memory from yesterday surfaced.

The front steps of the monastery. McCloud’s busted-open suitcase. Darius scooping up objects from the wet stone, stuffing them back into the bag, the bottle of pills in his hand. Alprazolam.

The only reason Darius had recognized the name of the drug was because of an email he’d received from McCloud a year ago.

I think I’m losing my mind. The Dying Violets continue to follow me everywhere and haunt my dreams. If I had known what a spectacle it would turn out to be, I never would have put them in the book. I started seeing a shrink. He prescribed me alprazolam to help with the anxiety…

Readjusting his gloves, Darius reached into the toiletry kit and pulled out the two orange bottles.

The vibration grew stronger, ricocheting down every vertebra of his spine. Marlow Griggs might claim he didn’t follow hunches, but Darius knew better. He knew that most of the evidence the detective did collect was due in part to some indescribable, ineffable, unscientific instinct.

Darius slowly rotated the bottles until he could read the labels.

The first was a statin, used to lower cholesterol. The second was lisinopril, which his own father took for high blood pressure—an unfortunate side effect of being married to Darius’s mother. Confused, Darius peered back into the bag. It was empty. Where were the antianxiety pills?

“Darius, come look at this,” Isabel called. He dropped the bottles back in the bag and hurried out to Isabel, who was hunched over the nightstand.

“What is it?” he asked, and drew in a breath as the silver band came into view, glinting in the sunlight. “McCloud’s wedding ring?”

She nodded. “In his room, exactly where Simone said it would be.”

“So, Simone was right? He must have taken it off before he went to the hot springs.”

“Looks like it,” said Isabel.

“I think it’s engraved.” Darius bent down to read the interior of the band. “M.S. + R.S.”

“R.S.?” she repeated, brow furrowed.

“Robert Shapiro,” explained Darius. “That’s his real name. Or it was, anyway. Ian McCloud started out as a pen name, but he legally changed it about ten years ago. Not many people know that. I doubt anyone still calls him Robert except maybe his wife.”

“M.S.?”

“Megan Shapiro,” said Darius. “She moved to France a few years ago. She couldn’t handle all the attention. Once they made Season of Dying Violets into a movie, his life turned upside down. Women constantly stalk him, dressed up like the serial killer’s victims from the book—”

“Oh my god, look at this!” Isabel flicked on her phone’s flashlight and aimed it into the narrow space between the bed and the nightstand. An empty champagne bottle lay on its side, as if it had accidentally fallen off the nightstand—or perhaps been hastily knocked out of sight.

“I think there’s blood on it,” she whispered.

Darius pinched the bottle between his gloved fingers and pulled it into the light. “La Grande Dame,” he read. “McCloud’s favorite brand.” He placed the bottle on the nightstand and rotated it until the small crimson stain was facing them.

“It looks like a thumbprint,” said Isabel.

What Darius wouldn’t give for a fingerprinting kit right now! He’d force everyone to give him a sample and then he’d compare them all to this print and—

“Didn’t Jade have a bandage on her thumb this morning?” Isabel asked.

Or there was that.

“She did.” Darius suddenly remembered. The fatigue was messing with his memory.

“And Simone said there was champagne sitting on a room service cart outside McCloud’s door last night,” Isabel added. “But Bennett said she didn’t take it in with her when she arrived.”

“Maybe she grabbed it later,” said Darius. “During their fight.”

“Or McCloud brought the bottle inside after she left.”

“I didn’t see a room service cart outside the door just now, did you?”

They shared a knowing look before leaping into motion and darting into the hallway. Just as they suspected, no cart.

“Where did it go?” Isabel asked. “Back to the kitchen?”

“Impossible,” declared Darius. “The power went out shortly after Simone left McCloud’s room. How would anyone get a room service cart down three flights of stairs without an elevator?”

“So, they had to stash it somewhere,” said Isabel, glancing down the hallway.

Darius followed her gaze. There were three doors in close proximity. They tried room 308. It was locked. But 309, next door to McCloud’s room, was not. A silent understanding passed between them as Darius swung the door open and peered inside.

“Bullseye,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jade opened the tall cabinet in the back of the office and rooted around in one of the cardboard boxes until she found the supply of Pen Ultimate Writers monogrammed notebooks. She carefully counted out one for each guest.

“This is a waste of time,” Jasmine complained from the corner, where she was seated on the floor, bouncing a small rubber ball against the side of the desk like a bored child stuck inside on a rainy day. “We need to get back to work.”

Jade ignored her and grabbed a handful of fountain pens from the desk drawer.

“You really think anyone’s going to show up for a critique group?” Bounce. “After everything that’s happened?” Bounce.

“I’m the facilitator,” Jade said firmly. “It’s my job to keep the conference running.”

“It’s your job to help me.”

Jade stuffed the pens into her pocket and tucked the stack of notebooks under one arm.

“They didn’t show up for those sad little peanut butter sandwiches you made for lunch either.” Bounce. “Just forget about them. We have to think about ourselves.” Bounce. Bounce. Bou—

Jade swiped the ball in midair. “Stop stealing Dexter’s toys.” She started for the door.

“Jadey, wait!” Jasmine called out. “What about the laptop? And the housekeeper? I can’t do this alone! I need you!”

But Jade didn’t turn around. She was tired of her sister’s antics. Tired of being her pawn. It always ended in disaster.

She shut the office door behind her and took off toward the library, knowing her sister wouldn’t dare follow her there. Too exposed, too many potential witnesses—especially now.

The monastery’s library was bathed in golden sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Dark wooden shelves, laden with well-loved books, covered every wall. Jade lit the fire in the gas stove, the crackling flames adding to the cozy atmosphere. On the coffee table in the center, she meticulously arranged the monogrammed notebooks and pens before lowering herself onto the leather couch. She checked her watch: 2:45 p.m.

Jade drummed her fingertips on the armrest and stared at the notebooks in front of her, feeling a strange urge that was so deeply buried in her memory she’d forgotten what it felt like. Forgotten about those sharp edges that longed to be smoothed, that pulsing built-up anxiety that needed an outlet. It had been so long. Would she even remember how to do it?

She checked her watch once more before gathering a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. Something hummed in her fingertips. An electrical current searching for ground. She eased open the cover and stared at the empty page. The wide-open space of possibility. Her breathing slowed. Her pulse quickened. Slowly, reverently, she uncapped the pen, guided the tip to the paper.

And something woke up.

Jade felt like a floodgate had opened in her mind. The words poured out like they’d been building up behind a poorly constructed dam that had finally burst. The sentences streamed out, so fast and furious her cramped, aching hand struggled to keep up.

She hadn’t written in years, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d written alone, without her co-author’s voice dominating the narrative. Now, as her pen glided across the page, it felt as though she’d never stopped. Like reuniting with an old friend, no preamble was needed, no small talk; the conversation flowed effortlessly, as if no time were passing. She was so absorbed in the words, the way the sentences seemed to bend to her will and yet write themselves at the same time, she didn’t hear the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall.

“Sorry I’m late!” Evelyn rushed in, holding a tote bag and a cup of tea.

Jade screamed.

Evelyn screamed back.

There was a seemingly endless mirror of screaming until both women recognized the folly of the situation and started to laugh.

“You scared me.” Jade clutched her chest.

“I’m sorry about that. I should know better than to interrupt a writer in her flow.” She nodded toward the notebook in Jade’s lap. “You looked like you were really in the zone there.”

Jade glanced down at her pages of scribbles, suddenly feeling embarrassed and slightly disoriented. “What time is it?”

“Quarter after three,” said Evelyn, lowering into one of the chairs.

She’d been writing for half an hour? It felt like the blink of an eye!

Evelyn placed her tea on the table. “I debated coming at all. I was going to go for a hike after lunch. I brought a map of the area, thought I could find a good trail, then I realized, I’m stuck at a writing conference, maybe I should be writing. Is that Dexter’s ball?” She pointed to the blue cat toy on the couch.

Jade handed it over. “Yes, it was—I found it in the office.”

Evelyn chuckled. “I’m not surprised. That cat is quite the Houdini. Sometimes I swear he can walk through walls.” She tucked the ball into her tote bag and pulled out a razor-thin laptop, which she nearly dropped. “My, this thing is light. It was a gift from my daughter-in-law. She said, ‘Evelyn, if you’re going to attend a proper writing conference, you need a proper laptop.’ ”

“She sounds very supportive,” Jade said, bending down to retrieve the pen she’d dropped during all the screaming.

“Oh, Laurelei’s a dear. I wouldn’t be here if not for her. After I got the invitation to the conference, she’s the one who convinced me to give the whole writing dream another go.”

“That’s nice.” Jade sat up straighter and stared into the dizzying chaos of words on the page. What exactly had she written?

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” said Evelyn, “but are you all right?”

Jade flinched. She’d been so careful with her reactions. Except, possibly, the screaming. “Yes, why?”

“Well, I don’t mean to pry, but I heard you talking in the kitchen…” Evelyn traced her bright pink fingernails around the edge of her laptop. “You know what? I really shouldn’t pry. Laurelei’s always telling me that I stick my nose into things that have no business with my nose.” She pulled a handful of jelly beans from her fleece pocket. “Want one? I found a caramel popcorn earlier!”

Jade shook her head. “No thanks.”

“Funny,” said Evelyn, gesturing to Jade’s notebook as she chewed on her candy. “I didn’t even know you were a writer.”

Jade closed the notebook. “I’m not. I mean, I used to be. I lost interest in it.”

She was grateful Jasmine wasn’t around to supply her typical sarcastic remark. The truth was, after that disaster of a book that ended their co-author relationship—a psychological thriller called Dead Girls Don’t Lie—Jade hadn’t just given up on writing murder mysteries. She’d fled to a job that was as far from writing as she could get. Now she processed claims for a life insurance company, ironically still spending most of her time analyzing how people died.

That is, when she wasn’t pretending to be a conference facilitator.

Evelyn nodded again at Jade’s notebook. “Well, you might have lost interest in writing, but it clearly hasn’t lost interest in you.” She opened her laptop. “I guess it’s just gonna be the two of us.”

Just then, the cat darted out from the shadows, startling Jade, and jumped onto Evelyn’s lap.

She chuckled. “And Dexter. Don’t worry, though, he’s usually pretty nice with his feedback.”

“What?” Jade asked, confused.

“The critique group. It’s supposed to be here at three o’clock, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, come on now,” said Evelyn. “You’re not going to leave me hanging, are you? You can’t do a critique group by yourself. I’ll tell you what, I’ll go first.” Evelyn squinted at her laptop through her bifocals as she dragged a fingertip across the trackpad. “But go easy on me, all right? I’m still recovering from the last time someone critiqued my work. Let’s just say I didn’t take it very well.”

A good murder is one that brings other crimes to the surface. Like that perfect storm that dredges up long-forgotten shipwrecks from the deep, or washes dead bodies to the shore.

If done right, the investigation should unearth more than just one misdeed.

There’s often a second, quieter crime hidden behind the action-packed excitement of the main storyline. Possibly more than one.

While characters are sneaking around, breaking into rooms, stealing keys and flash drives, something else is happening beneath the surface.

Layers are being constructed.

Subplots are being woven.

The subtle, nuanced work is always done in the subplots. That’s where you’ll find the deepest-laid threads, the writer’s most intricate stitchwork. The clues you’re not supposed to notice. This is where the past catches up to the present, the way the past always does.

Make no mistake. Ian McCloud’s murder is not the only crime worth solving here.

It might not even be the only murder.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Room 309 was a mirror image of McCloud’s, with expensive furnishings and an oversize balcony. Just inside the entryway, the abandoned room service cart sat wedged against the wall, as if stashed in a hurry. Darius crouched down, his keen eyes dissecting every detail. The crisp white linen tablecloth, the silver champagne bucket, now filled with nothing but melted ice, and a single rose presented in a crystal vase, its petals tinged with rot.

“I wonder whose room this is,” Darius mused, not expecting an answer.

“It was assigned to Molly Kent, one of the speakers,” Isabel said. “But she never showed.”

Darius peered at her over the top of the cart. “How do you know that?”

She looked caught out. “Oh, um, I saw the guest list. It was just sitting around yesterday when I was looking for my room.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you memorized the whole thing?”

“It’s not hard for me. I have an eidetic memory.”

“You do?” Suspicion immediately gave way to excitement. That was an excellent skill for a helper character to have!

“Look,” said Isabel, redirecting his attention back to the cart. “There’s blood here too.”

Darius darted to the other side and leaned in to examine the tiny crimson stain on the corner of the white tablecloth. “So, Jade most likely delivered him the champagne.”

“Are you thinking poison?” Isabel asked with a shiver in her tone.

“It’s definitely an option,” he conceded. “Several lethal toxins can take hours to kick in, giving McCloud plenty of time to get down to the hot springs before any symptoms appeared.”

“So maybe Simone came back after their fight and slipped something into the bottle.”

“Or the facilitator poisoned it before she delivered it,” Darius countered. “Think about it—why stash the cart in an empty room unless you’re trying to hide something?”

“You’re assuming Jade is the one who stashed it,” said Isabel. “I just don’t buy her as a killer. I mean, the woman jumps at the buzzing of a fly.”

“Hey, I’m not ruling anyone out,” Darius said, making his way back to McCloud’s room.

Isabel followed. “Really? So not even me?”

The directness of her question made him flinch. “I…well…”

“Relax, I was kidding.” Isabel placed a gentle hand on his arm, but it did little to relax him.

“So, you didn’t find anything else in here besides the wedding ring and the champagne bottle?” he asked, glancing around McCloud’s vacant room.

“No,” said Isabel. “Nothing. You?”

“No.” The lie slipped out easily, although technically it wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t found anything. That was the problem. McCloud’s antianxiety pills were missing. But he wasn’t ready to divulge that information. Because the truth was he hadn’t ruled out Isabel. She was the one guest at a mystery writing conference who didn’t write mystery. That still didn’t sit well with him.

“So, where did his laptop go?” Isabel scanned the room. “And now that I think of it, I don’t see a phone either.”

“I don’t know.”

“And why was the door open when it was supposed to be locked?” she asked, her tone gently prodding. Was she trying to lead him somewhere?

“I don’t know,” he repeated, this time with a slight edge to his voice.

“Well, if you ask me, Alastair is still the most likely suspect,” Isabel said. “Maybe he ordered the champagne to be sent to McCloud’s room. He would know his client’s favorite brand.”

“So then Jade delivers it”—Darius continued the theory—“gets blood on the tablecloth and the bottle in the process, but it’s Alastair who stashes the cart after the power outage?”

“Exactly. That’s why this morning, in the dining room, he pretended not to know the hotel had room service. So we wouldn’t suspect him.”

Darius started pacing the room. “But what reason does Alastair have to steal the two million dollars? Doesn’t he make enough commission from McCloud’s novels?” He paused as another memory from yesterday forced its way into his mind.

McCloud and Alastair facing off in the foyer, eyes locked like cowboys in a duel.

“It’d be a shame to dredge it all up again, wouldn’t it?” Alastair threatened. “Especially with your new release so close at hand. How disappointing to have another book canceled before anyone has a chance to read it.”

“The canceled book,” Darius whispered, threads desperately trying to connect in his mind.

“What canceled book?”

Darius began pacing again. “Deception’s Maze. It was supposed to come out two years ago, but it got canceled when a woman accused McCloud of sexually assaulting her at a writing conference.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Darius saw Isabel flinch.

“Don’t worry,” he quickly added. “The accusations were disproved. There were all sorts of holes in her story. It was clear she got most of her information from his social media feeds, not from actually meeting him. Apparently, she has a history of lying. It turned out she was just trying to get publicity for a book she was attempting to publish.”

Isabel’s face went very still. “Wow. That’s…awful.”

Darius sighed. “Yeah, especially because it undermines the real victims of assault who have to fight to be believed. There was such an uproar. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it.”

She shrugged. “Young adult is a totally different world. We have our own dramas.”

“Right. Anyway, the backlash against her was merciless. She completely vanished from the public eye. No interviews, no social media, nothing. No one’s heard from her since. I mean, I can’t really blame her. Her reputation was demolished, not to mention any chance of a writing career. Unless she wrote under a pen name—”

“Why did they cancel McCloud’s book if the accusations were disproved?” Isabel asked.

Darius thought back to the tormented email he’d received from McCloud two years ago, in the midst of the scandal.

I suppose it’s better to play it safe, but I’m still devastated. It’s the best thing I’ve ever written and now no one will have a chance to read it.

“The publisher decided the whole situation was too emotionally fraught,” Darius explained. “They were afraid a new release in the midst of everything would backfire, so they scrapped the book. McCloud had to return the advance and everything.”

“Which means”—she locked eyes with Darius—“Alastair lost out on all his commissions.”

“Right.” Darius’s mind raced through the calculations. “Between the royalties, the advance, foreign rights, movie rights—that could easily add up to…”

“Two million dollars,” she finished for him.

They shared another knowing look before dashing to the balcony door. Darius pressed his nose to the glass and stared at the monastery’s driveway, three floors below.

Just as he feared, Alastair’s car was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“‘The small coastal town of Harbor Hollow was swallowed by a veil of thick fog. Salt air, heavy with the tang of seaweed, wrapped around the centuries-old cottages. Narrow lanes filled with secrets curled like smoke through the town, disappearing into the obscurity of the morning.’ ”

As Evelyn read, Jade lost all sense of time. She didn’t know if she’d been listening to a paragraph or a page. Evelyn’s literary voice was rich and evocative. The sentences flowed one to the next in perfect, polished rhythm. Jade closed her eyes, swept into the narrative like a gentle current. Even the cat was lulled into a sleepy purring trance.

“ ‘In the heart of this labyrinth, behind a faded blue door, lay the body of Edmund Godfrey, the town’s beloved pastor. Life had departed him, leaving behind a tale that would unravel the quiet façade of Harbor Hollow like a fraying piece of wool. A shattered lantern flickered beside him—’ ”

Evelyn stopped reading abruptly, as though she’d lost her place on the page. When Jade opened her eyes, she saw tears behind the woman’s thick glasses.

“What’s wrong? That was wonderful.”

Evelyn startled, like she’d forgotten Jade was even there. She removed her glasses and cleaned them with a sleeve of her lime-green fleece. “Dear me. I’m so embarrassed.”

“About the pages or the crying?”

Evelyn chuckled. “Both, I suppose. It’s just…” She sniffled and slid her glasses back on. “I haven’t read these pages in so long. They filled me with so much emotion.”

“They’re brilliant,” Jade encouraged. “Ms. Channing, you’re a gifted writer.”

The woman waved the compliment away and stroked the cat’s soft gray fur. “Oh, you don’t have to say that. It’s all right. I know that the story is terribly flawed.”

“What? No!” Jade insisted, frustration rising in her. It was always the best writers who were the most self-deprecating. “Why would you think that?”

“Because that’s exactly what the last critique said.” Evelyn was so matter-of-fact about this, Jade was momentarily taken aback.

“What critique? Did you submit this to an agent? You know one agent’s opinion is not everything. You’ve met Alastair Sinclair, right?”

They shared a chuckle before Evelyn replied, “Oh, it wasn’t an agent, dear.”

Jade’s forehead creased. “Then, what critique are you talking about?”

“From the Murder She Wrote competition. I entered last year. It’s a very prestigious competition for women mystery authors who want to break into the genre. The winner gets a guaranteed publishing deal!”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Jade warily. Jasmine had wanted to submit their book. Jade insisted it wasn’t ready. It ended in a massive fight.

“But obviously I didn’t win. My manuscript just wasn’t good enough.” She closed her eyes, like she was about to recite a favorite prayer. But instead, in a distant, almost ethereal voice, she said, “Thank you for submitting your novel, Shallow Graves, to the Murder She Wrote competition. While I can see you put considerable effort into this novel, I’m afraid the execution falls short. The story has fundamental structural flaws, the characters are flat, and the writing is overdramatic. Most critically, your narrative lacks the unique literary voice required to stand out in today’s mystery marketplace.”

Jade gasped. “What? Who wrote that?”

Evelyn opened her eyes and smiled. “Oh, it doesn’t much matter now, dear. What’s done is done. I made my peace with it in my own way.” She reached for her locket and patted it tenderly.

A chill rippled down Jade’s spine as she glanced between Evelyn and the cat, whose green eyes snapped open and locked on Jade’s, as if to say, Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.

Jade cleared her throat. “W-w-what way is that?”

Evelyn looked lost in thought, mindlessly stroking the cat. “Let’s just say I don’t believe in holding grudges. You know what they say about holding a grudge, don’t ya? It’s like drinking poison and hoping the other guy dies.”

Jade shivered and angled her body closer to the fireplace, trying to soak up the heat. “Right.”

“Don’t look so worried.” Evelyn patted Jade’s knee, causing her to flinch. “The story has a happy ending. I realized it was silly to let one critique stand in the way of my dream. That’s why I’m here. But listen to me droning on. It’s your turn now.” She closed her laptop with a snap.

“What?” Jade asked, startled.

“I shared my pages. Let’s hear yours.” She nodded to the notebook in Jade’s lap. “You can read what you were just working on.”

Terror flashed through Jade. “I really don’t think my pages are ready.”

“Oh, nobody thinks their pages are ready.” Evelyn’s eyes twinkled. “I promise I’ll be nice.”

Jade peeked under the cover of the notebook like a child checking for monsters under the bed. She still had no idea what she’d written. The words had simply poured out of her without thought, bypassing her conscious mind. She scanned the hastily scribbled sentences, her gaze snagging on small clusters of words that felt like stab wounds. Raw and pulsing and far too fresh.

…thought I was doing the right thing…wanted Ian McCloud to pay…should have tried to stop her…blood is on my hands too

Jade slammed the notebook shut and tried to calm her racing heart.

“Don’t make me rip it from your little hands,” Evelyn said with a laugh that was clearly meant to sound teasing. Still, Jade eyed the doorway, wondering how fast she could make it out.

“Um…” Jade eased open the cover of the notebook, angling the page away from Evelyn’s prying gaze. “This is a story about…” Her mind scrambled for details. Any details.

Just then, footsteps clattered on the hardwood floors as Darius and Isabel rushed into the library like knights in shining armor. With a surge of relief, Jade shut the notebook again. “Oh, look! More guests! Are you here for the critique group?”

They exchanged confused glances before Isabel announced, “Alastair’s gone!”

“What?” Jade jumped up and ran to the window, gaping at the empty driveway.

“Does that mean the bridge is open?” asked Evelyn hopefully.

“It must be,” said Isabel. “How else could he leave?”

“What about Marjorie?” Jade asked.

“You mean she didn’t come back?” Darius asked.

“I don’t think so,” said Jade. “But I haven’t checked the parking lot in a few hours.”

The group shared a tense look before bolting from the room, feet thundering across the weathered floorboards. Only Jade lingered behind. Once their footsteps had faded, she walked to the fireplace and tossed her notebook into the crackling flames, watching the pages curl and blacken, her dark confession now nothing more than ash.

When she turned toward the door, she noticed Dexter watching her from the corner. Green eyes narrowed, tail flicking back and forth like the pendulum of a ticking clock.

Chapter Thirty

The sun hung low in the sky, the scent of pine needles sharp in the air. The cool breeze slapped Darius’s cheeks, rousing him slightly, but he was still so tired. The fatigue was clouding his thoughts, messing with his vision. He struggled to focus on the gravel parking lot in front of him. The surrounding trees blurred, smearing like green paint across the darkening sky.

“It’s empty,” Isabel announced, her voice wavering with uncertain emotion.

“You mean Marjorie never came back?” Evelyn asked.

“That’s right,” Jade whispered, more to herself than the others. “She’s gone.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. No one was quite sure what to make of this, Darius least of all. His temples pounded and his brain felt like mush. Two suspects gone?

The group shuffled back into the foyer. The high ceiling seemed to loom larger in the late-afternoon light, the modern furniture creating ominous silhouettes against the walls. Darius collapsed into a chair, clutching his throbbing head.

Wake up! he scolded himself as his smartwatch buzzed with another warning.

“This is good news, right?” Evelyn asked, glancing uneasily at the others.

“What’s good news?” Bennett and Simone appeared on the stairs, hands entwined like high school sweethearts.

“Alastair left,” Evelyn said at the same time Jade announced, “Marjorie never came back.”

“Who’s Marjorie?” asked Simone.

“The housekeeper!” Isabel snapped, making Darius’s head throb harder.

“Does that mean the road is cleared?” asked Bennett hopefully.

“No,” said a disgruntled voice, followed by the slam of the front door. They all turned to see Alastair scowling in the entryway, suitcase in hand. His face was streaked with engine grease and his crumpled clothes splattered with mud. “The bridge is still completely blocked.”

“What?” Darius’s head jerked up, adrenaline momentarily sweeping away the fatigue.

“It’s just as bad as the last time I was down there.” Alastair dropped his luggage with a resigned huff. “Possibly worse after all the rain. We’re still completely trapped.”

A collection of gasps and swear words rippled through the group.

“Wait.” Jade glanced toward the door. “If you couldn’t get out, then where is Marjorie?”

“Who?” asked Alastair.

“The housekeeper!” Isabel shouted.

“Her car is still gone,” said Jade.

“What kind of car is it?” Alastair asked, shimmying out of his coat.

“A blue sedan, why?” Jade asked.

“Oh, I saw that car,” said Alastair. “It’s parked down at the bridge.”

“What?” asked Bennett at the same time Simone asked, “Why?”

Alastair shrugged. “Search me.”

“Jade!” Darius leapt to his feet. “What time did Marjorie leave?”

Jade wrung her hands. “I don’t know. Um, around eight. Eight-thirty.”

Darius checked his watch, his suspicions mounting. “That was hours ago.”

A palpable tension settled over everyone. Dread seeped into Darius’s gut. A dead body? A missing laptop? A missing bottle of pills? And now a missing woman?

“She must have gone to get help!” Evelyn broke through the uneasy silence, popping Darius’s bubble of darkening thoughts.

“You think?” Jade asked, her voice lifting.

“Absolutely,” declared Evelyn. “Why else would she leave her car at the bridge? She must have found a way to squeeze through the roadblock and walked down on foot.”

“But it’s at least ten miles to the highway,” said Darius.

“And it’ll be dark soon.” Isabel’s eyes darted toward the window, where the light was rapidly fading. “She’ll get eaten alive by wildlife.”

“Maybe not.” Jade looked lost in thought. She turned to the others, her eyes brimming with newfound hope. “If she left around eight and was able to walk maybe two miles an hour, she’d nearly be at the bottom of the mountain by now.”

Darius’s doubt began to crumble. Was it that simple? Had Marjorie merely gone for help?

“She could flag down a car,” Jade went on, “or at the very least call the police or the highway patrol. There’s cell service once you get near the main road.”

“They’ll send someone to clear the bridge,” Evelyn added. “We could be out by morning!”

“Or sooner!” agreed Alastair.

“Thank god! We’re saved!” Simone cried, tilting her head to the ceiling.

An infectious wave of relief washed over the group, their faces alight with growing optimism. But a very different type of emotion was brewing inside Darius as his gaze bounced between the guests. The suspects.

One of these people murdered Ian McCloud, but now he’d never know who. Or at least he wouldn’t be the one to find out. If Marjorie went to get help, then soon the police would arrive. The real detectives would take over with their shiny badges and fancy forensic tools. And Darius would go home. Back to his boring life.

He knew he should feel relieved, like the others. This nightmare was almost over. Soon, they’d be saved. But all he felt was disappointment.

So, that’s it, then. Marjorie walked down the mountain to get help. The police will be here soon and this will all be over. End of story, right?

C’mon. You should know me better than that by now.

Chapter Thirty-One

The spare key to room 307 clanked softly as it settled back on its hook. Isabel’s flashlight swept across the small office, warping the shadows into unnatural shapes.

Night had fallen and everyone had retired to their rooms. Dinner had been another awkward affair, with Alastair drunk off his face, Simone and Bennett unable to keep their hands off each other, and everyone gnawing on overcooked steak while darting anxious glances at the door, expecting the police to barge in at any moment. They didn’t.

Which meant they were stuck here for at least another night. Trapped in this place with its creaking walls and shifting shadows. The monastery itself felt like an untrustworthy suspect, harboring secrets and changing alliances on a whim.

Isabel shut the cabinet and spun the combination lock to secure it, feeling the burden of that key lifting from her shoulders. She hadn’t even had to use it. McCloud’s room had been unlocked when she and Darius searched it…and found his laptop and phone gone.

As she crept back down the hallway toward the service stairwell, Isabel thought about the last time she’d been in the office—hiding under the desk while someone had replaced the very key she’d come to take. Clearly, she wasn’t the only person at this conference who needed to get into Ian McCloud’s room. But who had stolen the key first?

“It’s not enough for your characters to lie to your reader. They must also lie to themselves.”

—Sebastian Blackstone

The framed quote greeted Isabel as she stepped into her room and locked the door behind her. She flicked on the fireplace, the only source of light, and sat on her bed listening to the old monastery creak and moan like a living, breathing thing. A creature that came alive in the dark and fed on human shame and fear. And she had plenty for it to feast on.

Isabel shut her eyes, trying to assure herself that she was safe now. She’d covered all her tracks. The spare key had been returned and McCloud’s wedding ring was on his nightstand. Darius had seen it. He would vouch for its whereabouts. There was nothing left to expose her.

Exhaling, she opened her eyes, and that’s when she noticed something on the hardwood floor. In the darkness of her room and the distraction of her thoughts, she’d stepped right over it when she came in. But now, like a magnet drawn to metal, it was all she could see.

Lying just inside the door, as if someone had casually slipped it under the crack like a hotel invoice or a comment card, was a small silver flash drive.

“Failure is just a plot twist in disguise.”

—Philip Thornfield

The quote hanging above Darius’s bed was mocking him. He lay in his room not sleeping, despite his smartwatch insisting he needed it more than ever. But he was feeling too sorry for himself to sleep. The defeat of the day was washing over him in thick suffocating waves.

He thought about the missing money—two million dollars funneled into some secret offshore account. He thought about McCloud’s missing laptop and phone, the missing pills, and the missing flash drive, and a small spark of motivation began to flicker in his mind again. Like a fragile flame. But just as soon as it came, it was snuffed out by his own self-pity.

You’d think he’d be used to disappointment by now. He’d had so much practice enduring it. But the sting of failure felt fresh as ever. And worst of all, every time he failed, he only seemed to prove his mother right.

Ten years ago, when he’d turned down his admission to her dream college, it was the first decision he’d ever made on his own. He was eighteen years old, for god’s sake. He thought he’d earned that freedom, at least. Of course, she’d tried to talk him out of it. “I didn’t work this hard to set you up for success just so you could throw it all away.” But despite everything she’d done to discourage him, Darius was determined to be a novelist. To craft twisty page-turning puzzles like his idol, Ian McCloud, with endings no one saw coming. But ironically, it was Darius who hadn’t predicted the ending. Because he never actually wrote one. He struggled for five long years and never managed to finish a damn thing. Despite all his studying of craft, obsessively breaking down the plots of mystery novels, even launching a fan channel for his favorite crime writer, eventually he gave up, resigned to the fact that he was simply better at analyzing other people’s novels than writing his own.

The crushing truth was, he hadn’t written in years.

But today, for a brief moment, Darius had become someone other than the disappointment he saw reflected in his mother’s eyes. Someone he actually respected. He’d reveled in the idea that he could be like Marlow Griggs. That he, too, could solve crimes. But he was wrong. He wasn’t a detective. He was just another failed novelist trying to find an ounce of purpose in his purposeless world.

The frustrating part was, if this were a Marlow Griggs novel, Darius would know that the story wasn’t over. Marjorie hadn’t really gone to get help. The police weren’t really coming to rescue them. That was just another misdirection. All part of the formula.

Ian McCloud was a master at weaving these false resolutions into his plots. Like a partial DNA match that points to the most obvious suspect, or a murder weapon dug up from a lake. Mystery solved. Case closed. But Detective Griggs was never fooled. He always knew there was more to it than that. And there always was. A few chapters later, Step 6: The Halfway Twist would arrive and Griggs would discover it was all a misdirect.

That was why Darius loved crime novels. While real life was chaotic and unpredictable, fiction had rules. Order. A structure you could follow. Fictional detectives like Marlow Griggs never failed. They always cut through the secrets and the lies and the red herrings to uncover the truth in the end.

Today, Darius had been given his chance to do the same. To solve a real murder. He’d had the key clue. The lead. He’d held it in his hand. And then he’d lost it. Just as he’d lost everything else. Who was he kidding? Just because he could analyze the plot of a fictional murder didn’t mean he could solve one in real life.

He couldn’t even keep track of a fucking flash drive.

Isabel’s hands trembled as she inserted the flash drive into her laptop. When the little icon appeared on the bottom left corner of the screen, she held her breath…and clicked.

She was expecting to find something that implicated Simone. That was why Darius was so convinced she’d stolen the drive from him. But the moment Isabel pressed play on the single video file inside, all her assumptions shattered.

The scene was dark and hazy, revealing a narrow gravel driveway cutting through a thicket of trees shrouded by rain and mist. But it wasn’t the scenery that caused Isabel’s heart to grind to a halt. It was the date and time stamped into the bottom right corner of the frame.

The date.

The time.

October 3, 11:52 p.m.

The night.

She was looking at some kind of security footage. Because of course there would be security cameras at his house.

Suddenly, everything made a sick kind of sense. The reason she’d been invited here. The reason someone had given her this flash drive. It wasn’t a coincidence. Or fate. Or some fucking sign from the universe! It was the past catching up to her.

The footage was grainy, darkness obscuring many of the details. A screech of tires on gravel blared through the laptop speakers and Isabel jabbed at the keyboard, lowering the volume just as headlights flooded the driveway and a silver SUV crashed into frame. Isabel’s hand wrapped around her throat, like she might stop the vomit from rising up. The car struggled to stay on the road, stalling and accelerating as if driven by a teenager learning to work a stick shift.

Finally, the SUV came to a sharp halt, and for a long time, nothing moved except the low hum of the idling engine and the rhythmic swish, swish, swish of the windshield wipers.

Isabel swallowed hard. Not because she knew what came next, but because she didn’t. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to stop the video. Her body was frozen, one hand glued to her throat, the other balled into a fist.

On the screen, the headlights flickered off and the car lurched to life, like some momentous decision had been made. The driver sped determinedly and recklessly through the trees and within seconds, it was out of the frame, leaving a spray of pebbles in its wake.

The footage switched to a different camera, showing a quiet clearing in the woods with a house at the center. Though calling it a house was like calling this monastery a motel. Its dark outline loomed against the starless sky, lit only by the soft glow of a few porch lights. Isabel recognized the sprawling Gothic-style structure immediately, with its soaring turrets and gables that peaked into razor-sharp points.

It was Ian McCloud’s house.

Bang!

The silence of the footage was broken by a car door slamming shut in the distance. A moment later, a slender figure stepped into frame. The flickering porch lights illuminated the dark purple streaks of her cheap drugstore wig, the thick charcoal lining her eyes, the studded leather choker around her neck. Another Dying Violet with a dangerous obsession. Unrecognizable unless you knew what to look for—like the tattoo inked into the woman’s right arm. Blood enveloped by flames.

Heart in her throat, Isabel watched herself charge up the porch steps and pound her fists on the front door.

“Robert Shapiro!” Her voice echoed through the laptop’s tinny speakers. “I know you’re in there! Open the door, you asshole! Stop hiding and have the balls to face me!”

When nobody answered, she pounded harder before finally storming back down the steps and disappearing around the side of the house. Then, everything went quiet again.

Is that it? Isabel found herself hoping. Is that the end?

It couldn’t be. There was no blood on her.

She checked the timeline on the video player. Over twenty minutes remained. She scrubbed through the footage, watching the silent house for movement. But apart from the subtle shifting of shadows and rain battering the windows, nothing stirred.

Until the last ten seconds. When Isabel tore back through the frame, running like hunted prey, frantically glancing over her shoulder. Everything—her face, hands, hair, and clothes—was covered in blood.

The sound of a car door slamming pierced the night. The roar of an engine. Tires on gravel.

Then the video cut out and the screen went dark.

Isabel sat in the darkness of her room listening to the sound of her own labored breaths as her thoughts battled one another in a deadly war.

What did I do?

There were cameras at his house.

Why can’t I remember?

Someone knows.

You’re a bad girl, Izzy.

Someone here knows.

She yanked the flash drive from the laptop and threw it into the fire.

Simone checked twice that Bennett was asleep on the floor before pushing back her covers and tiptoeing to the bathroom. It had been his idea for them to share a room tonight, for the sake of keeping up appearances, but there was no way she was going to let him into her bed.

Shivering, she crept past the broken window, now secured with one of her scarves, and closed the bathroom door behind her. In the darkness, she rifled around in her toiletry kit until she found the small box of tampons she kept inside. It was the safest hiding place she could think of.

She tilted the box and let the small silver flash drive drop into her palm.

Oh, right. Did I forget to mention there’s more than one flash drive?

Don’t be mad.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Bennett kept his eyes closed and his breathing even until he heard the door to Simone’s room shut. He pushed back his makeshift covers and sat up, his back twinging painfully. He was far too old to be sleeping on the fucking floor. And the meager blanket and pillow Simone had bestowed upon him might have been enough for one of the monks who used to dwell in this place, but Bennett had spent the last ten years touring the world with Ian McCloud. He was used to five-star accommodations, pillow menus, and complimentary silk sleep masks.

He stared at the door, listening as Simone’s footsteps faded into silence.

Where the fuck is she going in the middle of the night? he wondered. But he didn’t have the luxury of time to contemplate the answer.

He stood, his spine creaking in rhythm with the monastery’s old floorboards as he tiptoed to the door and listened. When he was certain that Simone wasn’t coming back, he eased the door open and slipped silently into the hallway.

The second floor was empty, as was the third floor. Everyone tucked away in their beds, thinking help was on the way, feeling safe. But Bennett knew he was not safe. Not yet.

He inserted the key into the lock and hurried into his room. The evidence was right where he’d left it: in the top drawer of his nightstand. He pulled out the square white envelope, his hands shaking as he withdrew the notecard inside. The one that had been slipped under his door last night.

McCloud’s sharp, angular handwriting glared back at him.

That money doesn’t belong to you.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered. That money did belong to him. Bennett had worked his ass off for it. For ten fucking years, his soul had bled for that money.

He let out a weary sigh. He was tired. He was dizzy. For the past forty-eight hours, he’d been forced to swerve a thousand times. But he knew it wasn’t over. Not with that wannabe-detective Darius Walker poking around the place, asking questions. The asshole was just nosy enough to stumble upon the truth. And Bennett couldn’t afford for anyone to stumble upon the truth.

The flash drive felt heavy in Simone’s pocket, disproportionate to its size. Like a storm captured in a single drop of rain. She shivered as a cool wind whipped across the hot springs and pulled her cardigan around her flimsy silk pajamas, but it did little to stave off the chill.

She carefully placed the tiny device on a large boulder, watching it glint in the moonlight. It was almost poetic, really. This was where Ian’s body was found, where his life had ended. It was only fitting that their darkest story should end here too.

Fitting? Hmm. Maybe the better descriptor was hauntingly symbolic.

Oh, what the fuck did it matter? The only person she’d wanted to impress was gone.

She searched until she found a stone heavy enough to do the deed. It felt savage and violent in her delicate hands. She peered at the drive, the evidence of what she’d done now imprisoned in this tiny contraption of metal and circuitry.

It was nearly two years ago, in mid March, but Simone remembered the night like it was yesterday. She’d taken the train to Washington, D.C., to meet Ian after his signing at Politics and Prose. The whole ride, she’d fantasized about a romantic night of gourmet room service and endless champagne. Tender, thoughtful kisses followed by rough and dirty sex. Ian fancied himself a gentle lover. Rugged on the outside, sweet on the inside. But he was the opposite. Gentle and slow at first, until the desire overtook him, and then…Well, it was a miracle no one had ever called the cops on them. Simone relished it, though. She convinced herself it was she who brought it out of him. That unlike with Megan, his timid wife, he could be his true self with her. Uninhibited. Unencumbered. Wild and slightly dangerous.

Finding his room had been easy that night. He’d left her a clue on Instagram. He often posted a picture of himself standing in front of the wrong room. A tactic to ward off the Dying Violets. Tonight, he’d simply reversed the number. The picture showed room 209—as if a hotel would ever put Ian McCloud anywhere lower than the seventh floor. She went to room 902.

When she knocked, she expected to see her favorite version of him. Luminous and still aglow from the hundreds of fans who had lined up to gush about how much his books had changed their life. Simone loved the warmth that radiated off him after a book signing. It was as if he stored it up all night, like a recharging sun, just waiting to bestow it on her.

But when he opened the door, she was met with something very different. His top two shirt buttons were undone, the collar rumpled as if he’d torn it open. His cheeks were sunken and shadowed, like a man who hadn’t eaten or shaved in weeks. And she could smell the alcohol oozing from him. She noted the half-empty bottle of single malt scotch on the nightstand and the glass gripped in his hand and tried for a joke. “You started without me.” It landed about as softly as a used-up rocket plummeting back to earth.

“Shut the door.” His voice was gruff, angry.

So, it was going to be one of those nights. She hadn’t brought the right outfit for that.

She painted on a disobedient smile. “Make me.”

“Just get inside.” He shoved her aside and glanced both ways down the corridor, his eyes dark and paranoid, before yanking the door closed.

Simone tensed, feeling their romantic night dissolving into vapor. She quietly removed her coat and draped it over the chair. For the first time since they’d started this routine, she felt like a stranger in the room and in her own body. She didn’t know where to sit, what to do with her hands. Normally, there was no question of what to do with her hands.

She perched on the edge of the bed with her hands in her lap like a child waiting to be scolded. Ian pulled out his phone, swiped once, and threw it at her. She barely managed to catch it before it gave her a black eye. “Jesus,” she growled. “Take it easy.”

“Just fucking read it already.”

She swallowed hard and peered at the screen. She didn’t have to read past the headline for her heart to start pounding in her chest.

Is this the death of Marlow Griggs? Mystery writer Ian McCloud accused of sexual assault at national writing conference

When Simone glanced up again, Ian was waiting for her with a glower and a full glass of scotch. Her hands trembled as she took it.

“Is it…” She had to force the words out. They felt like jagged knives in her throat. “True?”

“Of course it’s not true!” Ian bellowed, more broken than angry. She’d never seen him so upset. “I would never take advantage of someone like that.”

Simone skimmed the article, feeling more sick with every swipe. “She says you invited her to your hotel room to give her publishing advice.”

He snorted. “Yeah, and she got the room number wrong. She said I was in 519. That was the decoy. This girl’s clearly desperate and looking for a book deal.”

“But—” She glanced back at the phone. “Her name’s not mentioned. It says she wants to remain anonymous.”

“For now,” he spat. “You know how these things work. Her name will come out in the next few days. It’ll be ‘leaked’ to the press to make it look like she had nothing to do with it. This has publicity stunt written all over it.”

Simone stared at the phone, her mind already grasping for the answer. The fix. There had to be a way to fix this. Every problem had a solution. Every plot flaw had a revision. She just had to find it. “Maybe you have nothing to worry about. If she’s clearly lying—”

“It doesn’t matter if she’s lying,” he spat. “The damage is done. The press is already hounding me. My publisher is talking about canceling the release of Deception’s Maze.”

“What? They can’t do that!”

“They can. Alastair just called and told me. It’s the best book I’ve ever written and now it may never see the light of day. That girl. That stupid lying bitch is going to ruin everything. Everything I’ve worked for. Everything we could be.”

The word sank in deep, like a thing with claws. “Do you have any idea who she is?”

He nodded and took the phone back from her. “I have an inkling. She was throwing herself at me all night. I kept saying no, but she wouldn’t leave me alone.” He swiped a few times and then handed the phone back. “She cornered me at dinner and took this selfie.”

Simone stared at the image of the girl. Heart-shaped face, dark hair, gleaming eyes, cheek pressed against his, a mischievous smile, like she was already plotting, already scheming.

Her stomach clenched. “Why is it on your phone?”

“Because she grabbed it from me!” he cried. “I was texting you and she snatched it right out of my hand. I told you, she’s a psycho.” He collapsed next to her on the bed with a weary sigh. “They’re all psychos.”

He took her hand in his. Simone always loved how their fingers looked woven together, like interlocking puzzle pieces, meant to fit. “Simone, I don’t know what to do.” His voice softened. Cracking. “What she’s claiming, that I would…” He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, Simone saw the vulnerability she’d spent five years waiting for—praying for. He looked fragile and distraught. She should have been overjoyed, relieved. The man had emotions! He was capable of feeling something other than lust. He could cry. He was crying. Yet she couldn’t move past the aching realization that another woman had broken him open. Not her.

“I need your help, Simone. You’re my rock. My everything. I’m innocent. You have to believe me.” The words were so entrancing, she was helpless in their spell. Everything she’d ever wanted was spilling out, spilling over, flooding the room. And she was swept away.

She could barely hear her own voice as she whispered, “Don’t worry, my love. I’ll take care of it.” She could barely feel her own body as he gratefully pulled her toward him, slipped off her dress, and tenderly kissed her skin. This time, when his breathing grew faster, the growls of lust filled the room, and his hands became rough and insistent, her mind emptied of everything.

Except the photograph of that girl’s face.

The rock came down hard. Splintering the tiny flash drive as if it were made of nothing stronger than brittle bone. The metal debris scattered across the surface of the boulder, strewing the ashes of her pain, her regret, the darkness she’d waded into for him. All because she wanted to feel useful. She wanted him to see her as more than just a former model with a killer body. She wanted to mean more to him than all the others. But she’d only been deluding herself.

As soon as she saw what was on that flash drive, she knew. Ian never saw her as anything but a good fuck and a convenient pawn in his gilded chess set. A fixer who could revise problems right out of his life story and keep his flawless reputation intact. He was always the hero and she the love interest—whose interest was never returned.

And now he was dead.

But Simone knew her work here was far from over. She studied the fragments of plastic and silicon strewn across the boulder, thinking about the envelope that had been slipped under her door last night—with the flash drive tucked inside. It couldn’t possibly have come from Ian. Why would he ever keep something like that?

Which meant someone else here knew what she’d done to that girl. Someone still alive.

Simone Prescott was tired of being a side character in someone else’s story, an editor of someone else’s life. It was time to take control of her own destiny. For once, it was time for her to clean up her own messes.

Calmly, methodically, she swept the pieces of the flash drive over the edge of the boulder, watching them tumble into the endless abyss and be swallowed up by the night.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Jade poured hot water over a tea bag and set the kettle back on the burner. As the tea steeped, she removed her glasses and peeled off her colored contacts. With all the commotion of the past thirty-six hours, she’d forgotten to take them out and her eyes were burning.

The monastery was quiet, only the occasional creaking of the old building settling in. She wasn’t used to so much silence. It had been hours since she’d seen Jasmine. Who knew where her sister was now? Probably off brainstorming her next plot.

Jade took a deep breath and slid her glasses back on. Maybe it was the scent of chamomile wafting in the air, or the promise of help on the way, but she was actually starting to feel a little better.

Then, the pounding started.

At first, Jade thought it was coming from inside her head, another stress migraine brewing over her temples. But the sound grew louder and more insistent, desperate fists banging against metal. It was coming from the walk-in freezer.

She stiffened, heart hammering, as her gaze drifted toward the icy tomb where they’d stashed Ian McCloud’s body.

His dead body, she reminded herself.

But the persistent pounding continued.

Jade shut her eyes. She was imagining it. She had to be. The stress of the day had finally caught up to her and it was playing tricks on her brain.

“Let me out! Please, someone open the door!” A voice echoed from inside the freezer. It didn’t sound like McCloud. It sounded like a terrified child.

Jasmine?

Jade yanked open the metal door. A body tumbled out of the freezer and collided with her, crying hysterically. “Oh, thank god!”

Jade went rigid, stomach churning as she found herself involuntarily locked in a rigid embrace. She peered into the open freezer where McCloud’s corpse sat propped up on a metal rack, his lifeless eyes gazing into oblivion.

Caught in a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief, Jade pulled back and stared at the young woman trembling before her. “Ms. Torres, what were you doing in there?”

Ten minutes later, Isabel sat trembling at the dining room table, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. She took a small sip, but the warm liquid did little to stop her shivering. The cold from the freezer had settled into her bones. But that wasn’t why she was shaking.

Jade sat across from her, clutching her own cup, waiting for an explanation.

“I took a sleeping pill,” Isabel finally said, unable to meet the facilitator’s eyes. “I do that sometimes when I can’t sleep. They really knock me out and sometimes…” She exhaled deeply. “Sometimes I wake up in strange places and don’t know how I got there.”

Isabel shuddered and closed her eyes. She could still feel him in the freezer with her, his deadness palpable.

“A sleeping pill,” Jade repeated in a blank tone.

Isabel opened her eyes and it was only now she noticed something different about the facilitator. She squinted in the low light. “Were your eyes always that color?”

Jade startled, knocking over her cup. Isabel leapt up to avoid the river of hot tea flowing toward her.

“Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry!” Jade darted into the kitchen and returned with a towel. She refused to meet Isabel’s eye as she mopped up the mess. “I can be such a klutz sometimes.”

“That’s okay,” said Isabel, lowering back into her chair. She couldn’t decide whose behavior was stranger, Jade’s or her own. She waited for Jade to rejoin her, but the facilitator was already halfway out the door, wet towel in hand.

“I should probably get to bed,” she muttered. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

Before Isabel could reply, the kitchen door swung shut and she was left alone in the dining room with only the crackling fire to keep her company. In the stillness, she could hear the muffled sounds of Jade’s footsteps on the service stairs, like restless ghosts pacing the corridors.

She glanced toward the window. In the flickering glow of the fireplace, the darkened glass revealed her reflection. For once, Isabel resisted the urge to look away, forcing herself to confront the tormented face in the mirror. The child who had lied and stolen and deceived, eventually driving away the one man who was supposed to love her unconditionally but never did.

You’re a bad girl, Izzy.

Her mother had always believed she’d grow out of it. A little discipline, a lot of church, and those deceitful tendencies would fade, like a passing phase. But after the night of October 3, Isabel started to realize the truth: The bad was in her blood. It was a part of her. A trait passed down from a father who’d abandoned them when they needed him most.

Sometimes Isabel felt like such a cliché. A twentysomething New Yorker with daddy issues who always chose the wrong men? She would never put a character like that in a novel, yet she was forced to live with that same tired story every day.

She tore her eyes away from her reflection and took a sip of tea, trying to calm her pounding heart. Her mind drifted back to the flash drive, now a heap of melted metal in her fireplace. Whoever had slipped that security footage under her door was warning her.

I hold all the power. I know what happened that night.

She could recall the next morning so vividly. Waking up fully clothed in her bed, with a headache so intense it felt vengeful. Stumbling bleary-eyed to the bathroom—to pee or vomit, she wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. What she saw in the mirror halted all bodily functions. And made her never want to look in a mirror again.

The blood was everywhere. Soaked into her clothes, dried onto her skin, caked into the tangle of synthetic purple hair that now sat crooked on her head.

“What have you done?” she whispered.

For several long minutes, she stood motionless in the bathroom, her mind a whirling, grasping carnival ride. It dug, it searched, it scoured her memory for details. But where there was usually a picture-perfect recall, all she found was a deep, soul-numbing darkness.

Over the next few hours, the memories started to creep back in. Not the high-definition renderings she was used to, but confetti wisps of color and sound, like a film reel fed through a paper shredder.

feet pounding on wet earth—angry breaths fogging up the air—“I’m calling the police!”—amber light through a dirty window—“Stop! You fucking psycho!”—a pond—a cottage—a red door—the woman—lying face down on the floor—cheek pressed against the tile—vacant eyes—dark fingertips—mouth open in a silent scream—

Isabel tried to rewind the details, find a beginning, a middle, an end, but all she got was a jumbled pile of scenes, like pages ripped out of a book and shuffled.

Since she was a child, her brain had never hidden anything from her. It remembered every crisp and vivid detail no matter how painful it was. Every lie she told and every chastising look her dad gave her in return. Every death-rattle breath Mami took in that hospital bed. Isabel started to wonder if maybe this time, her brain had forgotten for a reason. Maybe it was really that bad.

Still, she searched for clues, a trail, a thread, finally stumbling upon an address in her GPS’s history. A familiar address that was etched into the pages of the diary she kept hidden under her bed. A house in upstate New York, less than a two-hour drive from her apartment in Brooklyn.

The satellite image on Google Maps showed the sprawling ten-acre estate in daylight. It barely matched her dark, splintered memories. The photo must have been taken in summer. The grass was green. The trees were lush. Unlike the images in her mind, which were full of mud and rot and decay.

She found the pond. The cottage. It was nestled in the woods a short distance from the main house. She remembered it. Not from that night but from countless other sleepless nights, poring over interviews, hate-scrolling his social feeds, remembering what he’d done. It was Ian McCloud’s office. A renovated guesthouse converted into a writer’s sanctuary.

“This is my home away from home. I have to have a quiet place to write or I get nothing done.” He’d posted several tours of it online, proudly showing off the shelves lined with international editions of his books—“I’ve been translated into over forty languages. Who knew I spoke Norwegian!”—the corkboard he used to outline his plots—“Here is where the magic begins”—the ornate oak desk in the corner—“This is from the set of Season of Dying Violets. The producers were kind enough to let me keep it.”

And of course, the door.

“I painted it red as a symbol of courage and passion. Two things every writer needs.” A conspiratorial wink to the camera. “It’s also, not coincidentally, the color of blood.”

What came next for Isabel was a life shrouded in terror. She scrubbed her apartment and the interior of her car with bleach. She scrubbed her hands every hour. But the blood never seemed to fully fade. It haunted her memories and seeped into her dreams.

Something terrible had happened in that cottage. Something she was certain she did. She just couldn’t remember what.

The next day, she forced herself to drive back to McCloud’s house, hands shaking on the wheel, expecting to see yellow police tape and flashing lights—a scene straight out of a TV crime drama. But instead she saw gardeners raking leaves and UPS trucks delivering packages. The mundaneness of it all chilled her to the bone. And only compelled her to dig deeper.

She set up news alerts and scoured missing persons reports, but nothing surfaced. Finally, she called a crime hotline and filed an anonymous tip, reporting suspicious activity at the home of Ian McCloud on the night of October 3. But when she called back for an update, she was told the claim had been investigated but no evidence of criminal activity had been found. That’s when the truth finally dawned on her: Whatever had happened that night, whatever she had done, someone had covered it up. But why?

The more time that passed, the more Isabel wondered if the truth would ever catch up to her. Until now.

Someone here knows.

Back in the dining room, Isabel tried to calm her pounding heart with a sip of tea, but something caught her eye, and she froze with the cup halfway to her lips.

Outside, the moonlight cast an eerie glow across the monastery grounds and for a second, she swore she saw a shadow darting through the trees, a dark figure moving toward the monastery.

She set down her cup and rushed to the window, pressing her nose against the glass, willing her eyes to adjust to the low light, but she saw nothing except a swath of inky darkness and her own tormented reflection staring back at her.

The perfect murder is all about the perfect pacing. After you’ve revealed some important pieces of the puzzle, you must give them space to breathe, settle, before launching into the next big twist.

That’s when a slower, calmer moment comes in handy. Two people gathered around a fireplace for an intimate conversation, perhaps. Maybe with a dash of romantic tension. Just enough to lull everyone into a false sense of security.

But it’s important not to linger in these moments for too long. After all, I’m not here to write a romance. I’m here to write a murder.

And it’s been a while since someone turned up dead.

Step 6

“The Halfway Twist”

Chapter Thirty-Four

The flames in the hearth writhed and crackled, painting the walls of the dining room with restless shadows. Darius staggered in, his vision blurry, reality wavering at the edges. He halted at the sight of a shadowy form by the window, unnaturally still, like a sleepwalker frozen mid-step.

“Isabel?”

With a gasp, she whirled to face him, eyes wide, fists snapping into a protective stance.

He froze. “It’s just me. Darius.”

She sighed and lowered her guard. “You have to stop sneaking up on people. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

He chuckled even though he wasn’t certain it was a joke. “What are you doing down here?”

She collapsed into a chair and clutched a mug of tea. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.” He slid into the seat next to her and poured himself a cup of cold coffee from the pot that had been sitting on the table since breakfast.

“Then I’m not sure caffeine is the best idea.” She nodded to his cup.

“Oh, it’s a dreadful idea,” he agreed before taking a long gulp. “But I’m officially in self-destruct mode now, so…”

“Stand back and keep clear of debris?”

“Exactly.” He flashed a weak smile. “Why can’t you sleep?”

Her gaze drifted to the window, as if looking for something in the darkness.

“Are you thinking about the flash drive?” he guessed.

She flinched, panic distorting her features. “What flash drive?”

“The one Simone stole from me.”

“Right. That.” She nodded, lost in thought. “So, you really have no idea what’s on it?”

His cheeks burned with the memory of his lie. “Actually, that’s not true.”

Isabel’s hands tightened around her cup. “You do know?”

“I have a theory.” His gut twisted at the thought of betraying his friend. McCloud had trusted him with information no one else knew. But what did that matter now? He’d already lost the drive—his one lead. Soon, the police would show up and all of this would be their problem. Not his.

He took a sip of coffee. The caffeine was slowly waking his senses, infusing his brain with a jittery artificial clarity. “The truth is, McCloud was writing a new book.”

“A book?” Isabel echoed flatly.

“But not like his others. He said this one contained dark truths that would make a lot of people very angry. I thought the manuscript might be on the drive Simone stole.”

“Did you see this book? Read it?”

He shook his head. “He died before he could show it to me.”

“Then how do you know about it?”

“Because he invited me here to help him work on it,” said Darius with a forlorn sigh. “We were friends. More like pen pals. He watched my YouTube channel and valued my opinion. But I doubt I’ll ever get to read it. I’m sure Simone’s destroyed the flash drive by now. There might be a copy of the book on McCloud’s laptop, but that’s gone too.”

She silently took a sip of tea, the flames in the hearth casting flickering shadows across her cheek. “You’re right,” she finally said.

“About what?”

“That’s the reason I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about the flash drive.”

He sipped his coffee, studying her face in the firelight, the dark circles beneath her eyes, evidence of more than one sleepless night. “I’m sure the writer’s block doesn’t help either.”

“How did you know I have writer’s block?” she asked in surprise.

He arched a brow. “I’m a detective, remember?” Then, upon seeing her doubtful look added, “You mentioned struggling with the last book in your series and taking pills to help you sleep…it wasn’t hard to deduce.”

Her gaze grew distant, her eyes glassy as if struggling to focus. Was she on a sleeping pill now?

“My mother died six months ago,” she said, her voice thin as paper. “I haven’t been able to write since.”

A lump formed in his throat. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but…” She sighed. “She was my best friend. When I was growing up, it was really just the two of us. My dad left when I was nine. Mostly because of me.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

She shrugged. “I was a lot to handle back then.”

“Now, that I believe,” he said with a smirk.

She cracked a smile. “I used to lie. A lot. Some might say I was destined to be a storyteller, but I think mostly I was just trying to get my dad’s attention. I never felt like he liked me very much. I was a pretty bad kid. I broke stuff, stole stuff, started fights at school, then lied about it. My mother said he couldn’t handle being a dad. I think he just couldn’t handle me. But Mami, she understood me somehow. She was my compass. She had this way of making everything make sense. Then she died, and suddenly nothing made sense anymore.” She stared into her cup. “I completely lost my way. Made some really stupid mistakes. And the words just stopped coming. When you can’t write, it’s like every waking moment is consumed by these endless stretches of emptiness. They follow you everywhere. They crawl into bed with you and eat away at your brain until your whole life is lived inside those voids.”

Darius couldn’t stop staring at her. “That’s beautiful,” he whispered.

She blinked, startled. “No, it’s torture.”

He immediately felt foolish. “Sorry. I meant the description. Not the—” God, he was so bad at this. “What’s the book called?”

“Forged in Steel.” She ran her fingertip over the fire-ringed blades of her tattoo. “The last of the trilogy. In the first book, my character discovers she has the ability to manipulate the elements, which means she might be the long-lost daughter of a magical elite family who rules the kingdom.” She flashed him a half smile. “I realize you’re not the target demographic.”

“Hey!” he said defensively. “I would totally read that!”

“Ah, so you’re a liar, too.” She bumped his shoulder, sending sparks of electricity ricocheting through him.

“Was that the book you sent to Alastair?”

She sighed. “Yeah. I tried the traditional publishing route first. Get an agent, create a bunch of buzz, sell it to a publisher. It didn’t go well. So I decided to self-publish. It’s much faster. I was able to release the first two books in only six months. The last book is supposed to reveal whether my character is really the king’s daughter or if there’s another explanation for her abilities. It was scheduled to come out months ago. I get hate mail every day. Half of my fans are desperate for her to be royalty, the other half demand she not be. I can’t win. No matter how I end it, someone will be disappointed. But as long as I don’t write it, as long as it stays unfinished, no one can be disappointed. It can end how everyone wants it to end.”

Darius grimaced. “Ugh. I’ve been there.”

“You’ve written a young adult fantasy series about a teenage girl who might be the daughter of a magical ruling family?” Isabel cocked an eyebrow.

“No.” Darius chuckled. “I just know what it’s like to be afraid of your own story. Especially the ending. I can’t tell you how many times I abandoned a novel halfway through because I was terrified it wouldn’t work. Or maybe…” He hesitated. He rarely opened up like this to anyone, let alone a woman he’d only met yesterday. But he felt safe with Isabel. Like they were letting down their guards together. “Maybe I was just terrified my mother was right and I was making a huge mistake.” He sighed. “You’re lucky your mom was so supportive. Mine always thought I was wasting my time trying to be a writer. If I’d stayed on the path she picked out for me, I’d be on track to be a CFO right now.”

Isabel smirked. “Somehow I can’t picture that.”

“Me neither. I just thought if I could write something really amazing, I could prove her wrong.” He laughed bitterly. “I should have known better. No one proves my mother wrong. I think that’s why my dad was never around much when I was a kid. It’s not easy to live with the great Claudia Walker.” He gazed into the flames as his watch beeped with another sleep deficit alarm. “With my mother, there’s only one way to do things—her way. And if you don’t agree, she’ll find a way to make you.”

“Ah, a control freak,” Isabel said with a teasing raise of her brow.

“You have no idea.” He fell quiet, feeling the old scars throb beneath the surface. “There was this one time, in middle school. I wanted to take a creative writing class. I loved to write but I didn’t know if I was any good at it. At first, my mom said no. It would distract me from more important things. But I kept bugging her about it and eventually, she made me a deal. This prestigious literary magazine, Echelon, was running a special issue on young voices. She said if I submitted a short story and they chose to publish it, that would prove I had potential and the creative writing class was worth my time. If not, I had to agree to drop the whole thing.”

Isabel sucked in a sharp, knowing breath. “She never submitted it, did she?”

“No, she did.” A bitter knot tightened in his chest. “I spent weeks on that story. I rewrote it more times than I can count. But in the end, they didn’t publish it. I just assumed it wasn’t good enough. So I kept my end of the bargain and I didn’t bring it up again.”

Isabel leaned forward, sensing there was more. Darius had only ever told this story to two people—his therapist and Ian McCloud, during one of their many lengthy email exchanges. Maybe it was the intimate fire in the hearth, or the lack of sleep, or the weight of all this failure pressing down on him, but in this moment, Darius wanted to tell Isabel too. More than that, he felt like he had to.

“I forgot all about it until ten years ago,” he went on. “I was cleaning out my room, getting ready to go off to college, and I found the issue of Echelon my story would have appeared in. I don’t know why I kept it, but as I was flipping through it, I noticed a familiar name in the masthead—the editor in chief, Nina Morrighan. I knew I’d heard that name somewhere, and when I searched her online, I found that she went to Yale and graduated the same year as my mom.”

“No,” Isabel whispered, her dark eyes wide.

“That’s what I thought,” said Darius. “I didn’t want to believe it. But the idea wouldn’t leave me alone. It consumed my every thought. I didn’t sleep for days. I became delirious. But eventually, I dug up the truth.” He shuddered out a breath. “Nina Morrighan was my mom’s college roommate. She was going to publish my story. It was good enough. But my mom told her not to.”

Darius closed his eyes, feeling like it was happening all over again. The shock. The punch to the gut. The razor-sharp sting of betrayal.

Don’t be so dramatic, Darius. I didn’t betray you. I saved you from a life of disappointment and frustration. Writers are miserable people who don’t make any money. Trust me, one day you’ll thank me for this.

A week later, he woke up in a ditch after falling asleep behind the wheel of his car. That’s when he started seeing Dr. Chen, who diagnosed him with an untreated childhood sleep disorder and put him on a strict sleep hygiene routine.

“The worst part about it is, she was right.” Darius laughed darkly. “I was wasting my time. I spent the next five years trying to claw back a single shred of confidence, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t finish anything, so I stopped trying. Every once in a while, I get the urge to open up one of my old manuscripts and pick up where I left off, but I just stare at that vast emptiness of the white page, and every blink of the cursor makes me feel more and more…”

“Trapped,” she finished for him.

The word hung in the air like an invitation. A promise of more. He turned toward her, her gaze already waiting to meet his, and found his own vulnerability reflected back at him. Suddenly, everything else faded away—the shame, the betrayal, the past—and there was only the glow of the fire burning in her eyes, as powerful and symbolic as the imagery inked into her skin.

He reached up and brushed the dark curls from her face, revealing a fading scar on her forehead. A piece of her he longed to understand. A wound he longed to heal.

To his surprise, she was the first to lean in, her lips like gravity. He could feel the kiss before it happened. He could see it as clearly as words on a page. A bullet point in an outline. Always placed right in the middle of the story. A diversion from the main plot, used to build intimacy, stakes, conflict.

And he felt that conflict mounting inside him.

Darius closed his eyes just as Isabel’s lips brushed his.

Every cell in his body caught fire.

Then extinguished a second later as a muffled shout pierced the air.

Darius jerked back. Isabel’s eyes flew open in alarm. Their gazes snapped up as another voice—angry and desperate—reverberated through the ceiling. What was directly above them? A guest room? The answer came a second later as a loud crack splintered the silence. A woman screamed. Then, something heavy crashed against wood, followed by a cascade of sickening thuds. The unmistakable sound of a body tumbling down stairs.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Isabel was on her feet in an instant. Her legs burned as she barreled up the service stairwell, the light of her phone already searching in the dark. She could hear nothing but the galloping of her own heart and the memory of those sickening thuds.

There was only one thing that could make that sound.

And it was lying on the third-floor landing.

Everything froze. Time. The earth’s rotation. Her own racing heart. It all stopped to mirror the cold lifelessness of the woman lying on the floor, her limbs twisted at unnatural angles, her dark eyes staring into nothing. Isabel screamed.

“Oh my god!” Darius appeared behind her, breathless and trembling, his watch shrieking like a code-red alarm. More people arrived in the stairwell, a whirlwind of stumbling feet and darting flashlight beams. Frantic voices fighting to be heard.

“Is that—”

“No. It can’t be.”

“What is she even doing here?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

It was impossible to identify any of the voices with the blood rushing through Isabel’s ears.

“Is she dead?”

“Someone should check.”

“Ew!”

“Bloody hell, I’ll do it.” Alastair knelt next to the body. He pressed two fingers gently to the woman’s contorted neck.

Despite the horrific scene—the tangled limbs and bits of wood scattered on the floor—Isabel found herself hoping, praying to her mother’s imaginary god in the sky, for any other verdict than the one she knew was coming.

Alastair’s face fell. “I’m afraid the housekeeper is dead.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

“The housekeeper is dead.” The words echoed around the stairwell like distant thunder as Darius stared numbly at the lifeless woman lying at the foot of the stairs, fear and fatigue swirling dangerously in his mind.

A second body…

“No,” Jade whimpered beside him. “She can’t be dead. She left. She went to get help.”

“Well, evidently she came back,” said Alastair, rising to his feet.

She came back…

The unavoidable logic sank like a stone into Darius’s mind. If Marjorie was here, then help was not coming. There were no real detectives on their way to solve the case. There was only him.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

His watch continued to beat in time with his racing heart.

“Do you think she fell down the stairs?” asked Alastair, aiming his flashlight at the fractured pieces of wood that lay scattered around Marjorie’s feet.

“Oh, bless her heart,” said Evelyn, her hand in a death grip around her locket.

“She didn’t fall,” said Darius with a stark certainty that seemed to come out of nowhere, chasing away the fear and fatigue. “She was pushed.”

The words descended like a dark shadow over the stairwell, rendering everyone silent.

“Now, that’s a very bold accusation,” said Alastair in a shaky voice. “She probably came back in the middle of the night and tripped in the dark.”

“She wasn’t alone,” said Isabel in a strangled voice. “I heard her arguing with someone.”

“So did I,” confirmed Darius.

“Who?” asked Simone, darting her flashlight between the two of them.

“I don’t know,” Darius admitted. “We were downstairs. The sound was muffled.”

“But we heard two voices,” Isabel insisted. She looked disoriented. Her eyes were struggling to focus again. “And then I heard a loud crack, like something breaking, and a woman’s scream before…” She shut her mouth, as if afraid she might vomit.

“Oh god.” Jade sobbed harder, burying her face in her hands.

“Look.” Darius shone his flashlight up the stairs. They all carefully maneuvered around the body, eyes drawn to the intermediate landing above where the wooden railing was splintered into jagged edges. “That must be what broke.”

“Maybe she grabbed it for balance but it didn’t hold,” said Evelyn.

Alastair grimaced at the body. “We should probably move her somewhere, right?”

“No!” cried Darius. “We can’t. This is a crime scene!”

Suddenly, Darius’s whole body was humming with an unshakable resolve. If his detective’s hunch had a control dial, it had been turned all the way up. He could feel the vibration in every fiber of his being, no longer subtle but singing.

A second body.

A second victim…

He aimed his flashlight back on the broken railing. “She might have been running away from whoever she was arguing with, but they caught up and pushed her down the stairs.”

“Again, who?” asked Alastair.

“Obviously it’s the same person who killed McCloud!” Isabel interjected.

“Why is that obvious?” asked Evelyn. “Maybe there’s two different killers. Or two people working together. First they kill McCloud and then—”

“I thought McCloud’s death was an accident,” Simone said, searching for someone to back her up.

“It was an accident.” Bennett stepped into the glow of Darius’s flashlight, startling him. “He hit his head and drowned, remember?”

“Where the hell have you been?” Simone asked, eyes narrowed.

“I’ve been right here the whole time,” replied Bennett with a twinge of annoyance.

Darius tried to rewind the last few minutes in his mind—had Bennett been here the whole time?—but all he got was a blur of murky shadows and bobbing flashlight beams.

“McCloud didn’t drown,” Darius announced, determination thrumming through his veins like high-octane fuel. “I’m now more certain than ever that his death was not an accident.”

“Oh, you’re more certain than ever, huh?” Bennett mocked. “Well, if that’s the case—”

“One death can be an accident,” Darius cut him off. “Two deaths make a pattern. A second body changes everything.”

A second body.

A second victim.

A second investigation…

He’d seen it happen all the time in mystery novels. A second body at the Halfway Twist is a popular catalyst for the Second Investigation because it raises the stakes, introduces new questions, a new mystery to solve. It turns the direction of the plot, fueling the detective with a renewed purpose.

A second body proved there really was a killer among them. Possibly more than one.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

“But why on earth would someone want to kill the housekeeper?” asked Simone.

“Maybe she figured out who killed McCloud and confronted them,” suggested Darius.

“Or the killer confronted her,” Evelyn piped in, her eyes sparking with intrigue, “knowing she knew something. And that’s what the argument was about!” She looked to Darius. “The second voice you heard, was it a man’s or a woman’s?”

“I couldn’t tell,” said Darius. “The sound was too muffled.”

“Then how can you be so sure Marjorie was even there?” asked Bennett.

Darius scoffed. “Because she’s the one lying dead at the foot of the stairs.”

“What about you?” Evelyn asked Isabel. “Did you hear who it was?”

“I…” Isabel squeezed her temples, confusion clouding her face. “I’m not sure. I heard voices and the crash. Then I ran up here and saw her body lying on the floor of the cottage.”

“You mean the floor of the stairwell,” said Alastair.

Isabel flinched. “That’s what I said.”

“No, you said the floor of the cottage,” Darius corrected softly.

“That’s what I meant.”

“But that’s not what you said.” Bennett aimed a flashlight into Isabel’s face, as if searching for something. Her eyes were glazed and bloodshot. “Are you high?”

She shoved his hand away. “I’m exhausted.”

“She took a sleeping pill,” Jade whispered, sniffling. “She told me.”

“Oh, big deal,” Evelyn said with a dismissive snort. “Who doesn’t take something these days?” She rested a hand on Isabel’s shoulder. “It only gets worse with age, hon. Between the muscle relaxers and the calcium supplements, you become a walking pharmacy.”

“If she’s high, how do we know she heard what she said she heard?” Bennett challenged.

“Because I heard it too,” Darius shot back. “There were two people in this stairwell.”

Plink.

Everyone froze as a splintered piece of wood dropped from the landing above and the floor creaked.

“Oh my god! It’s the killer!” Simone cried. “They’re still up there!”

“But we’re all here,” argued Bennett.

Plink. Plink.

More debris rained down, followed by a drift of sawdust that blanketed the body like ash.

Several torch beams shot upward, illuminating a flash of gray fur slinking between the broken balusters.

“Dexter!” Evelyn chided. “You get down here this instant!”

“Meow,” he replied, and batted another piece of debris over the edge. It bounced off Marjorie’s arm and landed next to Darius’s foot.

“Great,” he muttered. “Another crime scene contaminated by the cat.”

“Maybe the cat is a witness!” cried Isabel. “What if he saw who Marjorie was arguing with?”

All eyes darted upward once more.

“Oh, come on.” Alastair groaned. “What do you think this is, a Lilian Jackson Braun novel? If anything, the cat’s the killer. He’s been suspiciously present at two crime scenes now.”

Another spray of splinters and sawdust fell, landing right in Alastair’s mouth. He gagged and spat, wiping his tongue on his sleeve.

“I think he’s trying to say you’re the killer.” Simone aimed her flashlight at Alastair.

“Please. He shouldn’t even be here. This is a writing conference. Not a bloody pet spa.”

“He’s right,” Darius whispered, his mind swimming. What was a cat doing at a writing conference? It was a strange detail that didn’t add up.

“Maybe you killed Marjorie after she found out you killed McCloud,” said Simone, flashlight still aimed at Alastair.

“Or maybe Isabel killed her,” Bennett said. “While she was blacked out on pills.”

“I wasn’t blacked out!” Isabel snapped.

“Plus, I was with her when it happened,” Darius rushed to add. “In the dining room. We’d been talking for a half hour before we heard…”

His voice trailed off as the scene came back to him. A fire in the hearth. An intimate conversation. A slower, calmer moment right before…

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The stairwell started to spin. Darius blinked to steady himself but it didn’t work. Marjorie’s body seemed to blur in and out of focus.

“Darius, are you okay?”

He refocused on Isabel. On that adorable crease between her brows. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about her. A small detail that had lured him in…

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

“Darius,” Isabel said sternly. Her voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. Another world. “Darius, what should we do about Marjorie?”

The question was like a spark. A switch. “Yes! Exactly! Marjorie! The second body. It’s all about investigating her murder now.” His heart raced. His mind whirled. It was the same feeling he got whenever a new novel idea came to him. A sick kind of euphoria. “That’s the next step!”

“Darius!” Isabel called after him, but he was already gone, already barreling down the stairs. Setting off in a new direction. With a renewed purpose.

Alas, it’s true. The housekeeper is dead. You didn’t really think Marjorie was going to make it out of this alive, did you? The woman had “throwaway character” written all over her.

I’m sorry. That was too glib, wasn’t it? I should be more considerate and respectful of the dead. But it’s not my fault. This world—and all the fucked-up people in it—has turned my heart to stone. I wasn’t always this way, you know? I used to be a rather compassionate person, selfless even. I used to grieve these kinds of things. But bitterness and regret can corrode any soul. Especially when left to fester and accumulate for years.

If it helps, Marjorie’s death wasn’t in vain. I needed her to die so the truth could come out. You saw how her death mobilized Darius just now, reigniting his obsession, luring him back into the investigation with a newfound hunger. It’s only a matter of time before he starts interrogating suspects again, searching for evidence, uncovering the truth.

I needed him back on the case. And he just needed a little push.

Or rather, Marjorie did.

Oops. I guess I can’t help myself.

When writing a murder, you eventually come to terms with the fact that some people are just more useful dead than alive.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The sun peeked out over the horizon on Sunday morning, promising a new day, a new start. But Isabel felt like she hadn’t moved in hours. She stood huddled in the corner of the library with the others, trying to tune in to the concerned voices whispering around her.

“What is he doing?”

“How the bloody hell should I know?”

“Maybe he’s in shock.”

“Meow.”

“Maybe he’s trying to figure out who killed Marjorie.”

“What are we going to do about the body? It’s still lying there.”

“Mmm. Cream soda flavor.”

“Someone should ask him.”

“I’ll do it.” Isabel cleared her throat. “Um, Darius?”

Darius didn’t look up. He sat at one of the wooden tables, surrounded by a chaotic sea of scattered paper and index cards. Dexter lay among the clutter, playfully batting at a highlighter pen. But Darius didn’t even notice him. He was hunched over a yellow legal pad, scribbling furiously, his hand locked in a death grip around one of the branded fountain pens. He looked like a mad scientist on the brink of a field-altering discovery.

“Darius.” Isabel tried again. “Do you want to tell us what you’re doing?”

Still no response.

Simone crept forward and tilted her head to read one of the index cards. “ ‘Step 3: Summoning the Sleuth. After McCloud is found dead in the hot springs, the group decides to move him to the freezer. Detective takes the case.’ ” She looked up. “What detective? What is all this?”

Darius ignored her as he frantically searched for something in the mess. Dexter flicked the highlighter pen off the table.

“What in heaven’s name is he doing?” asked Alastair.

“Maybe he’s writing a novel,” whispered Evelyn, absentmindedly shoveling jelly beans into her mouth. “He’s totally in the zone.”

Darius mumbled incoherently as he jotted something down and then went back to searching.

“That’s what I look like when I’m in the zone,” admitted Simone.

Lifting up a pile of loose pages, Darius made an Aha! gesture as he unearthed a copy of The Bestseller Formula. The cover was scuffed and tattered and the pages marked with colorful flags. He flipped it open, ran his finger down the page, then scribbled something on another index card.

“I need coffee.” Alastair clutched his head and collapsed into a nearby armchair.

“I’ll go make some.” Jade turned toward the hallway but was stopped by a loud bang as Darius slapped the index card on the table, startling Dexter. He hissed and jumped to the floor.

“I got it!” Darius announced, launching to his feet.

“Got what?” Isabel asked with dwindling patience.

Darius flinched, noticing his audience for the first time. He looked back at his notes, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. It’s been right in front of me the whole time. The landslide. The power outage. The closed bridge. McCloud’s death. His mistress. His disgruntled assistant. The ex-agent who stole two million dollars from him. Even the cat!”

“Hey! I didn’t steal a pound from that bastard!” said Alastair.

“It’s not just by the book. It’s textbook!” Darius exclaimed.

“Darius.” There was an edge to Isabel’s tone. “You’re not making any sense.”

“I am! Everything is finally making sense!” He hastily arranged his index cards into a grid. “First, we all arrive on Friday afternoon. ‘Whenever possible, put your characters in danger on the very first page,’ that’s what the book says. I had a Lyft driver who took every turn like he was in the Grand Prix.” He turned to Isabel. “You nearly drove off the road. McCloud got in a fistfight with his agent.”

“Former agent,” Alastair reminded him in a gruff tone.

“Who showed up unexpectedly after he was disinvited,” Darius added.

“I was told McCloud was disinvited,” Alastair vowed for the hundredth time.

“We know!” shouted Simone and Bennett in unison.

“That was Step 1.” Darius pointed to the first card in the grid before turning to Jade. “When did you realize the phone lines were out?”

Jade wrung her hands. “Shortly after the fight. Alastair and I were in the office and there was a loud crash—”

“The landslide, right,” Darius said. “It also blocked the bridge, trapping us here, and eventually took out the power. All of that was Step 2, the Looming Threat, which ended with the discovery of the body on Saturday morning. You have to have a body by the end of Step 2.” He continued moving through the index cards. “I was summoned to the crime scene in Step 3. Then came the First Investigation, Step 4, where I hunted down evidence with Isabel, the helper character.”

Isabel cleared her throat loudly.

Darius ignored it. “Next we entered Step 5, the Maze of Misdirection, where Isabel and I broke into McCloud’s room and—”

“You broke into his room?” Bennett asked, pinning Isabel with a glare.

“Well, technically, we didn’t have to. The door was unlocked,” said Isabel.

“That’s when I discovered McCloud’s laptop, phone, and pills were missing,” said Darius.

“His laptop is gone?” asked Jade at the same time Simone asked, “Wait, which pills?”

“His antianxiety pills,” said Darius.

“How do you know he took antianxiety pills?” Isabel asked, eyes narrowing.

“I saw them in his luggage when the wind knocked over his suitcase.” He cut a look at Bennett before continuing. “After we searched McCloud’s room, we discovered Marjorie was gone. Everyone concluded she went to get help. But where is that help? Why aren’t the police here?” He opened The Bestseller Formula to a marked page and pointed at a passage highlighted in green.

Jade leaned in and read it aloud. “ ‘By the end of Step 5, the detective’s trail should either lead to a breakthrough or run cold. Either way, it’s a false resolution, because a bigger twist is coming.’ ”

“The second body,” Isabel whispered, with a shiver. “Step 6.”

Darius pointed at her like a professor praising a prized student. “Yes! The Halfway Twist. It came right after I kissed you.”

Isabel shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of all the eyes studying her with sudden interest.

“Wait, he kissed you?” Simone looked at Darius with newfound respect.

“Technically, I kissed him,” said Isabel. “But I don’t think now is the time to—”

“It’s classic,” Darius said.

Isabel’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“A kiss is a classic trick for raising the emotional stakes of the story,” he explained. “A slower, calmer moment right before the Halfway Twist. Something intimate to tease out important details about the past. You opened up to me about your dad and your writer’s block and I opened up to you about my mother. I was already attracted to you, and then you were all fragile and vulnerable, with the fire burning in your eyes. It was an irresistible combination.”

Isabel’s eyes narrowed. “Are you implying I emotionally manipulated you?”

“No, not you. But someone…”

“Does anyone know what the fuck he’s talking about?” Bennett asked.

“I’m talking about the plot!” exclaimed Darius. “Marjorie’s murder is the catalyst for this!” He tapped the next card—Step 7: The Second Investigation. “The steps are all there! They’ve set it up perfectly. They’re following the formula to the letter.”

Bennett threw up his hands. “Who?”

His question was met with nothing but blank stares. Except from Darius. “The writer.”

Silence filled the library.

Darius breathed out an impatient sigh. “Don’t you see? This isn’t a writing conference. It’s a setting. We’re not guests. We’re characters.” He picked up his copy of The Bestseller Formula and thrust it forward. “We’re inside a mystery novel. And the writer is using this book to write it.”

Oh, fuck.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“Have you gone mad?” Alastair bellowed, igniting a flurry of shocked whispers and incredulous gasps that echoed around the library. But Darius could hear none of it. He was too lost in his own awakening—a conscious conviction that grew stronger by the second. Every time his gaze flickered across those index cards—those plot points—he knew.

“Hold up.” Isabel raised her hands to quiet the din. “Darius, you’re not actually implying we’re literally inside a mystery novel, right? You’re just speaking metaphorically.” She turned to the group, which now resembled more of a befuddled mob. “He’s just speaking metaphorically.”

“No,” replied Darius with a stark certainty that sent a chill through him. “I’m not. I’m saying none of this is real. It’s fiction. It’s a plot. And we’re trapped inside it.”

“He has gone mad!” Alastair declared. “Mad as a bloody hatter!”

“I always wanted to be in a novel,” Evelyn said wistfully before her face fell into a grimace. “Unless it’s the kind where all the characters get picked off one by one. Is it that kind of novel?”

“It could be.” Darius flipped back through the scribbled pages of his notepad. “But it’s unlikely given that only two people have died so far—”

“So far?” Jade squeaked, looking queasy.

“We’re already at Step 6,” Darius continued, “the midpoint. If the writer planned for all of us to die, more of us would be dead by now. Otherwise, the pacing would feel imbalanced.”

“Imbalanced?” Isabel repeated with a raise of her brow.

“It does seem to be the operative word,” muttered Alastair.

“But that doesn’t mean more of us aren’t scheduled to die in the outline,” Darius went on.

“Outline?” Simone asked.

“Oh, this writer is definitely using an outline. There’s no way this was written by a pantser.”

“Pantser?” asked Evelyn.

“Someone who writes by the seat of their pants,” explained Isabel. “Instead of outlining in advance.”

Darius gestured at his grid of index cards. “Look. All the steps are here. Perfectly plotted. And we’ve followed along like actors in a play. We’ve all done exactly what the writer wanted us to do. Even the damn cat!” Dexter glanced up from the corner where he was grooming himself. Darius turned to Alastair. “You arrived right at the end of Step 1. You are the Intriguing Opening!”

“I am not a bloody plot point!” Alastair roared, turning red.

“When I was younger, I dreamed of being Nancy Drew,” Evelyn waxed nostalgically.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Darius.” Isabel reached for his wrist to silence his alarm. “It’s been a long few days. You’re exhausted. You’re not thinking clearly. And you’ve seen two dead bodies. Your nervous system is shot. Look! Your heart rate is through the roof!”

“She’s right,” said Evelyn. “You don’t want to be messing with the heart. My poor husband played Russian roulette with his heart meds and it killed him. God rest his soul.”

“Why don’t you get some rest?” suggested Isabel gently.

But Darius barely heard her. Once again, his gaze traveled across the cards, the steps, the formula—and a wave of despair washed over him. “I played right into the writer’s hand. This whole time, I did exactly what I was supposed to do. We all did. Like the obedient little characters we are.”

“Hey!” cried Simone. “I am not a character. I’m a real person.”

“Okay, calm down, Pinocchio,” muttered Bennett.

“Oh, you shut up,” she fired back.

Darius collapsed into a chair. “And now we’re trapped out here. All alone.”

“That’s not true,” Jade rushed to say. “Remember, there are still plenty of people looking out for us. Like Chef Melissa and her assistant, the staff, and all those guests who never made it.”

“Don’t you get it?” Darius ran a heavy hand over his face. “They’re not real! Chef Melissa was a plot device. A background character. She was only mentioned for believability. The reader probably never even met her.”

“The reader?” Simone asked.

“The person reading the book we’re in!” cried Darius in frustration. “It’s the same with the rest of the staff, and the other writers on the guest list. They don’t exist. They’re made-up—” He slapped his forehead. “That’s why I didn’t recognize any of their names!”

“Bloody hell,” Alastair grumbled. “I refuse to sit here and listen to this rubbish. I’m going to make the coffee.” He stood up and disappeared into the hallway.

“I don’t understand,” said Jade. “Why would there be a list of made-up names?”

“To make the premise plausible!” exclaimed Darius. “You can’t have a writing conference with only seven people, but juggling thirty characters is too complicated. So the writer made up a bogus list of guests who conveniently ‘couldn’t make it.’ ” Darius put air quotes around the words. “No one is coming to help us. Because that wouldn’t make for a good story. We’re on our own.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Isabel tried.

“Yes, I do! I analyze mystery novels for a living. We’re trapped here until the murder is solved and the book ends the way the writer wants it to end.”

“Then, let’s solve the murder!” Evelyn said in a rallying cry as she leapt from the chair.

“It’s not that easy.” Darius slumped further. “There are twelve steps and we’re only at Step 6. That means we’d have to go through Step 7, the Second Investigation, Step 8, Danger Descends, and let’s not forget about Step 9.”

“What’s Step 9?” Evelyn asked.

“The Spiral of Despair,” replied Isabel.

“I think we’re in Step 9 now,” muttered Simone, gesturing to the nearly comatose Darius.

“No,” he said. “Step 9 is when the main character hits a dead end, doubts everything they know, and falls into a pit of hopelessness. Oh, and it’s also when another character dies or comes close to death,” he added in a challenging tone. “Do any of you want to take the chance that it might be you?”

The question hung in the air like a dark, ominous cloud. The others exchanged anxious glances, unsure how to respond.

“Well, I’m not afraid,” said Evelyn, tossing a handful of jelly beans into her mouth. “I say we get off our haunches and get to the bottom of this mystery right now.”

Darius shoved back his chair with a disheartened scrape. “You can all do what you want. But I’m done being manipulated. I’m just…done.” He stood up and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing across the foyer like an ellipsis at the end of an unfinished sentence…

Oh god, I need a drink.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The room is dark. Cramped and musty with an unidentified odor in the air. The ceiling is low and vaulted, casting sharp, bladelike shadows across the floor.

I’m a big fan of murderous imagery. It helps me get in the mood.

Atmosphere is important, too. That’s why dust motes swirl before a lone dirty window and empty coffee cups litter every surface. Papers are strewn about an old desk, notes scribbled in the throes of fleeting inspiration only to meet their demise as crumpled dreams.

This is where I sit—where I’ve been sitting the whole time. In the midst of this creative chaos, hunched over my trusty old laptop. Typing, toiling, creating. Wrenching words from the depths of my soul like a rusty oil drill.

Except now, the words have stopped.

It feels like the whole world has stopped.

I take a long swig of bourbon and stare at the screen, vision blurring.

“You can all do what you want. But I’m done being manipulated. I’m just…done.”

My gaze slides to the scuffed-up copy of THE BESTSELLER FORMULA, lying next to my laptop like a faithful companion. Because of course I’m using the book. I’m playing this one completely by the book. I thought if I just followed all the rules, all the steps, nothing would go wrong. Now look what’s happened! Everything has gone wrong.

What’s the matter? You didn’t expect to find me here?

I told you from the start I was the mastermind behind everything. Who did you think was writing all the words you’ve been reading? Did you think I didn’t exist? That the words were somehow writing themselves? You had to know there was someone behind them. There’s always someone behind the words. Pull back the curtain of any mystery novel and there’s always a writer toiling away, pulling the strings, planting the clues, working tirelessly to entertain you.

I told you, I’m doing this all for you. I wrote this murder for you.

And now I’m losing control of it. Losing everything.

I pour myself another drink.

Chapter Forty

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Bennett sat on one of the sofas in the foyer, drumming his fingers against the side of his coffee cup. He felt like there was something he was meant to be doing right now, but he was so exhausted, he couldn’t for the life of him think of what it was.

Slurp.

Alastair took a noisy sip from his cup.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Jade stirred her coffee, staring at the wall.

Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

Evelyn chewed noisily on her jelly beans.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Simone pecked mindlessly at the decorative antique typewriter on the end table.

Schlomp.

Dexter licked his paws.

Tap. Slurp. Clink. Chomp. Clack. Schlomp.

Was Bennett supposed to be looking for something? Hiding something? Writing something in his narrative folio? He felt like a sailboat trapped in an oscillating breeze less than a mile from port. Except he couldn’t remember what port he was headed to. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something to happen, someone to step up and helm this boat. But they were all too tired and no one knew how to sail.

Clack. Clack. Cla…

Clink. Clink. Cli…

One by one, the sounds faded, replaced by the gentle hum of deep breathing. Jade’s spoon came to a rest in her cup. Alastair’s head sank forward against his chest. Dexter rested his head on his paws. Simone began to snore. And Evelyn’s jelly beans rolled across the marble floor.

Bennett’s eyes grew heavier, the fatigue of the long, chaotic night catching up. It felt like warm liquid was seeping through his body, dulling his senses, slowing his thoughts and the momentum of the past few hours. Despite his attempts to fight it, the exhaustion finally took over and Bennett’s eyes drifted closed.

Darius sat alone on the edge of a massive boulder, his feet dangling over the sheer drop that plummeted down the mountainside. The wind whipped around him, carrying the sulfurous tang of the nearby hot springs. He reached for a pebble, turning it around in his palm before tossing it over the side, watching it vanish into the endless abyss.

“I thought you were afraid of heights.” Isabel’s voice cut through his solitude as her footsteps approached from behind.

He shrugged. “Apparently, I’m not. Because I feel nothing. See?” He stood and stepped precariously close to the edge, waiting for his pulse to soar or his sweat glands to power up, but all he felt was emptiness. Not even a clench in his stomach or a flicker of his heart rate. “Nothing.”

“Okay, well, I feel something.” She hastily climbed onto the boulder and pulled him away from the edge.

“I guess fear of heights is just another made-up detail in my character profile.” He flung another pebble over the edge. “Darius Walker. Age twenty-eight. Gets nervous around heights and pretty girls with fire tattoos.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a hint of a smile on Isabel’s lips, but he didn’t care enough to check.

“Darius, look at me.” She tugged at his shoulder, urging him to face her. “You need to snap out of whatever this is. Two people are dead. We have to do something.”

He threw another rock over the edge, watching it skitter and crack open on the larger rocks below. “There’s no point in doing anything. It’s over.”

“What’s over?”

He sank back down onto the boulder. “Life. Existence. Reality. It’s all meaningless.”

“No, it’s not.” She sat beside him. “We can still do something. We can investigate Marjorie’s murder. I’ll help you. I’ll even be your sidekick.”

“Do you believe me?” He turned to face her, a challenge in his gaze.

Isabel flinched. “That we’re in a novel?”

He nodded.

She bit her lip, clearly hedging. “Darius, when was the last time you slept?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

She sighed. “Yesterday, you told me that when you don’t get enough sleep you get…What was the word you used? Unstable?”

Predictably, at that exact moment, his watch let out a sharp warning beep.

“See?” She grabbed his wrist and tapped the screen. “You’re in a massive sleep deficit. You’re clearly not in your right mind.”

He wrenched his arm away. “Do. You. Believe. Me?”

She threw up her hands. “Of course not! Of course we’re not inside a novel. That’s ridiculous!”

It was a knife to the gut. Darius snatched up another pebble and tossed it over the cliff. “Great. Thanks for your honesty.”

Isabel’s face softened. “I’m sorry. I just think you’re in shock. You saw Marjorie dead and it was too much. Your sleep-deprived brain is trying to protect you from the fact that we’re trapped in this monastery with a killer, and this…delusion feels like a safer option.”

“It’s not a delusion. You know the formula too. You saw the steps. They’re all there. You can’t deny that.”

“Okay, yes, I admit that is weird. But there is another explanation.”

He shot her a defiant look. “Like what?”

“Like perhaps the killer is using the formula to get away with murder. We’re all writers here, remember? It would make sense that whoever is the killer would also know The Bestseller Formula.”

He tried to let that land in his fog-addled brain, but it refused to sink in. “It’s not just the steps. Everything feels too staged. Too perfect. I mean, look at this place!” He gestured wildly at the desolate landscape. “It’s got mystery novel written all over it. And you—”

She flinched again. “What about me?”

“I’ve been attracted to you since the moment I first saw you. Not just because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. No, that wouldn’t be enough. It has to be more than that, and it is. You’re so unlike me, bold and brave and a little dangerous, while I’m afraid of everything. We even have complementary backstories! You and your daddy issues and me and my mommy issues. It’s all too orchestrated. Which means someone is orchestrating it.”

Isabel rubbed her temples. “Darius, trust me, I’d do anything to escape my reality, too. I’d love to believe that my problems are just some intriguing backstory invented by a clever writer. But my problems feel way too real to be fictional. My pain is too strong to be just words on a page.”

“But isn’t that the mark of a good novel?” Darius challenged.

She sighed. “Look, maybe it doesn’t matter if we’re real or not. My mother always said that bad decisions are what make bad people.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I guess it means that whether we’re characters or real people, we still get to decide who we want to be.”

“You think we actually have a choice of what kind of character we get to be?”

“Yes.” She peered out into the valley, her gaze growing distant and hazy, like she was reliving some traumatic moment through a dirty lens. “I think everyone gets that pivotal moment in their own story when they realize life isn’t what they thought it would be and they get to decide how that moment is going to change them. Who they want to become as a result. The hero…” Her voice cracked. “Or the villain.”

His fingers grazed the rough surface of the boulder beneath him. “That sounds nice. But this isn’t my own story, remember? It’s someone else’s.”

“So, you’re just going to give up?”

“Yup.” He sacrificed another innocent pebble to the abyss.

Isabel huffed. “Just like with your writing career, right? All those half-finished novels you abandoned. As soon as it gets hard, you quit because you’re too afraid. Talk about a predictable character.”

Something fierce and hot rose up in his chest. It had been so long since he’d felt anything so intense, he almost didn’t recognize it. “You don’t get it, do you? I can’t be unpredictable. I’m a character in a novel. I don’t have a mind of my own. If I can’t finish anything, it’s because I was written that way.”

“You think characters can’t develop minds of their own?” Isabel scoffed. “Every character I’ve ever written has turned on me! My characters never do what I want them to do. They’re always taking over the story. It makes me want to quit every single time.”

He let out a sad laugh and scooped up another pebble. “Most writers do quit.”

The familiar shame twisted in his gut. How many times had he abandoned a story he loved? A premise he was so certain would work if he just followed the formula? Could he even call himself a writer anymore if all he’d done was fail? But he supposed that was just another scribbled detail on a piece of paper.

Darius Walker. Age twenty-eight. Impostor.

He hurled another pebble over the edge, watching it soar before dropping into oblivion.

“Well, I’ve never quit,” Isabel declared. “I always finish what I start, no matter what.”

“Oh, really?” he challenged. “How’s that last book in the trilogy coming along?” It was spiteful. It was below the belt. And he instantly regretted it.

Isabel shoved herself off the boulder, fury flashing over her face. “Fine. If you want to sit here and be pathetic, that’s your call. I was just trying to help. You know, because that’s my job.”

He wanted to stop her. Say the right thing to make her stay and gaze into his eyes the way she’d done last night. Maybe even finish that kiss. But he knew that, too, just wasn’t in his character.

So he watched her walk away, leaving him alone with the wretched thoughts that weren’t his, the regrets he didn’t ask for, and a sense of helplessness that had been woven into the fabric of his being for the sake of entertainment.

But something she said was gnawing at him. An idea that refused to leave him alone.

He climbed down from the boulder and sped down the cobblestone path, finally catching up to Isabel at the gazebo. “Wait!” he called, grabbing her arm. “What did you just say? About characters not doing what you want?”

She let out an impatient huff. “I said it makes me want to quit every single time.”

Something prickled the base of Darius’s spine. Was that why he’d always given up? Because his characters didn’t stick to his meticulous outline? It was always right in the middle of the story when the plot fell apart.

He glanced up at the monastery, stark against the late-morning sky, thinking about what he was supposed to be doing right now according to the formula: investigating a second murder. Yet he wasn’t doing that.

Which meant he’d already broken free. From the outline. From the writer’s plan.

“Yes,” he whispered reverently.

“Yes, what?” Isabel snapped. But he barely heard her.

“What if the reality of writing a novel is not a leisurely stroll down a pre-paved path?” He was speaking more to himself than to Isabel. “What if it’s more like a constant tug-of-war between character and author, a to-the-death battle for control over the narrative?”

“Darius, what are you talking about?”

“What if that’s why so many writers quit? They simply don’t have the stamina to handle the stress. The fight. The war. It’s too hard.” He turned to meet her gaze, his eyes sparking with inspiration. “But what kind of stamina does this writer have?”

Something started to take root in Darius’s brain. The seed of an idea. An inkling of how this moment might change him. He’d had a lot of ideas in his life. A lot of seeds planted in the earth that never had a chance to fully blossom. Because he’d given up on them too quickly. But somehow, he knew that this seed was different. He knew that if he watered it and nurtured it, eventually, over time, it would grow tall and sturdy. It would become a mighty beanstalk he could climb up and up and up. Right off the goddamn page.

I bang my head against the keyboard. Over and over.

I hate this book. I hate my life. And most of all, I HATE Darius Fucking Walker. Ooh, look at me, I’m my own person. I have my own thoughts and feelings and dreams. I’m Jack and the fucking beanstalk.

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Everything is falling apart! We’re already on page 250. We’re supposed to be well into Step 7 by now. But how can there be a Second Investigation if I don’t have a detective? Meanwhile, the rest of my characters are fucking sleeping!

I slam my laptop shut. This is it. The end. I’ll never leave Step 6. I’m doomed to be trapped in the middle of the story forever. There’s a reason writers call it the “muddle.” Eventually, you’ll give up and stop reading. And all of my careful planning and outlining will be for nothing. Years of hard work down the fucking drain.

I finish my third drink and slam the glass on the desk. The floors rattle from the impact, making the room spin.

You know what? No. I’m not giving up. You want to see stamina, Darius? I’ll show you stamina. You have no idea how I’ve suffered and sweated and bled for this story. I have worked too hard and sacrificed too much to get this far only to have it be snatched away by some pissant who can’t even finish a novel.

You won’t take this from me, Darius. I won’t let you. I am still in control of this narrative. No matter what you think.

I pour myself another bourbon and locate my outline in the mess of papers on my desk. Through hazy, blurred vision, I study the plot points for the second half, moving pieces around in my mind, trying to make them work. But it’s a lost cause. Everything in this outline hinges on Darius investigating Marjorie’s murder. But I can’t count on Darius anymore. He’s dead to me.

I crumple up the outline and throw it into the corner. It’s time for a new plan. I reopen my laptop and scroll back through my notes, reviewing everything that’s happened so far. There’s got to be something here I can work with. Let’s see…

McCloud’s laptop and pills are still missing.

We still don’t know what’s in Isabel’s pharmacy bag.

Or the truth about Bennett’s email.

There’s still two million dollars missing from Ian McCloud’s bank account.

And, of course, no one here knows about Jasmine.

Yes. YES!

I don’t need Darius to launch the Second Investigation. There’s another way.

With a renewed sense of purpose—and dare I say it, confidence—I scroll back to where I left off in the manuscript and begin a new chapter.

As I rest my fingers on the keyboard, I feel bold. I feel rebellious. What I’m about to do is highly unorthodox and probably breaks several universal laws of storytelling, but I don’t care anymore. I’m finished following the rules. Rules are what got me into this mess in the first place.

I’ve been following rules my entire life. And I’m done.

Step 7

“The Second Investigation”

Chapter Forty-One

The last step creaked under Isabel’s feet as she reached the top of the main staircase. Ascending to the fourth floor was like ascending into another world. Set far above the bright, insulated rooms below, the attic level of the monastery had an entirely different atmosphere. The hallways were cold and dark, the ceilings low and pointed like sawed teeth, and sharp asymmetrical corners seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“Damn you, Darius,” she cursed under her breath as an icy draft whipped down the corridor, running through her like a ghost trying to escape the ethereal world. Why did he have to lose his mind now? Leaving her to deal with this alone.

She hurried past a series of arched recesses that looked like they had once been shrines and arrived at the last door of the hallway—room 413—positioned next to the service stairwell.

Sucking in a breath, she withdrew the key she’d just stolen from the back office and turned it in the lock.

Marjorie’s room was barely the size of a broom cupboard and it was a mess. Every square inch was covered in clothes. A suitcase sat on a rack in the corner, with items hanging haphazardly off the sides. Even the bathroom was scattered with toiletries and crumpled towels on the floor.

It looked like…

A crime scene.

Isabel shivered, theories and postulations fighting for space in her mind. Had the argument started here, quickly escalating to the point of violence? Or was this chaos the result of the killer’s desperate search to find something?

Or perhaps the housekeeper was just a bit of a slob.

“Damn you, Darius,” she swore again. She was completely out of her depth. What did she know about solving murders? She wrote fantasy!

Respira, mija. Her mother’s voice slipped into her ear, reminding her to breathe. It was just as calm and soothing as she remembered. Her dad was the one with the temper. Mami always kept her cool. A trait she apparently hadn’t passed to her daughter.

Isabel walked to the window and pushed aside the curtain. The late-morning sun streamed into the room and four floors below, Marjorie’s blue sedan glinted in the parking lot, like a beacon calling out to Isabel, drawing her into this web of intrigue.

Was that who Isabel had seen from the dining room window last night? Marjorie returning to the monastery? Moments before she’d argued with her killer and was pushed to her death?

“Maybe she figured out who killed McCloud and confronted them.”

She’d confronted someone, of that much Isabel was certain. Perhaps it was the same person who had slipped Isabel the flash drive with the security footage from Ian McCloud’s house. If someone had been sneaking around this monastery in the dark, Marjorie would be the most likely person to catch them. From growing up in hotels, Isabel knew that housekeepers were often treated as invisible, seeing and hearing much more than people realized. Which meant if Isabel could figure out who killed Marjorie, she might also uncover the truth about the night of October 3.

“We’re all writers here, remember? It would make sense that whoever is the killer would also know The Bestseller Formula.”

Isabel’s words to Darius floated back into her mind. Despite his sleep-deprived delusions, he was right about one thing: There were too many overlaps between the events of the conference and the steps of The Bestseller Formula to ignore.

Friday night at dinner, Simone had gushed about the book while Bennett and Alastair both agreed it was drivel. And Evelyn claimed she’d never heard of it. Of course, any of them could have been lying. Because that’s what writers do best.

A thought shivered through her. If the killer had used the formula to plot a murder, could Isabel use the same formula to catch them?

She closed her eyes and summoned the text from the depths of her memory.

In response to the Halfway Twist, the detective launches the Second Investigation, widening the scope of their search in order to uncover new evidence, clues, and suspects.

Her eyes snapped open and in that moment, standing in the middle of the dead housekeeper’s room, Isabel felt like she’d been given a new role to play. Shoes to fill. Darius had cracked. There was no detective to investigate the murders. If anyone was going to uncover new evidence, clues, and suspects, it would have to be her.

Pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, Isabel got to work. She opened dresser drawers and bathroom cabinets. She pushed aside piles of clothes and shone her flashlight around the tiny closet. The more she searched, the more her confidence grew. But it wasn’t until she knelt to peek under the bed that she knew she was on the right track.

A tingle shot down her spine.

There, lying on the rug, hidden among the dust and shadows, was a small rectangular object that looked a lot like a cellphone.

“Bullseye.”

Well, that went even better than I expected. Isabel needed no nudge at all. She was already so riled up from her argument with Darius and her concern for the housekeeper, she leapt into action all on her own. As if she were destined to be my detective from the start.

Huh.

Turns out, I didn’t need Darius Walker, after all.

How do you like that, YouTube Boy?

Isabel held her breath and pressed the power button, praying the phone had juice. But whose phone was it? Marjorie’s—or McCloud’s? His phone was missing from his room, implying someone had taken it.

The screen illuminated and a jolt of adrenaline rushed through Isabel, only to fizzle out a moment later as a passcode prompt appeared.

Of course the phone would be locked! Every phone is locked. How could she think all she had to do was press the power button and voilà!—all the secrets of the case would be revealed to her?

She hastily tapped a few random combinations of digits—none of them successful—before the low-battery alert warned her that she was wasting time. Frustrated, she powered down the device and was about to slip it into her pocket when she noticed a series of familiar scuff marks on the back.

Wait a minute. She’d seen this phone before. On the day she arrived.

Isabel closed her eyes and rewound the memory. It was crisp and vivid, like nearly all of her memories.

Standing in the foyer Friday afternoon, soaking wet. A woman in a white uniform introduced herself as Marjorie. Isabel asked what room she was in. But Marjorie didn’t know. She had to look it up.

On her phone.

The exact same model Isabel now held in her hands, with the exact same scuff marks.

Which meant…Isabel knew the passcode.

Pulse quickening, she let her mind continue to play the scene with perfect clarity, zooming in on the screen as Marjorie tapped out the numbers.

5-4-6-2

Isabel’s eyes flew open. She repowered the device, hands already shaking with anticipation. When the prompt appeared, she wasted no time.

5-4-6-

She hovered over the final digit, hesitating as Darius’s words from earlier echoed in her mind.

“I played right into the writer’s hand. I did exactly what I was supposed to do. We all did. Like the obedient little characters we are.”

“Stop!” she said aloud, shaking the doubt loose from her exhausted brain. No matter how tired she was, she could not allow herself to get sucked into Darius’s delusions. They were a series of fun-house mirrors that made everything look distorted. Even if there was a killer following all the steps of the formula, Isabel was not a character in a mystery novel. She was not being manipulated by some imaginary writer in the sky. She was a person. With free will. And she made her own damn decisions.

Free will. It’s a nice thought, Isabel. But no, you don’t make your own decisions. You do what I tell you to do. That phone is the first domino in a long chain of dominos that need to fall in order to get us to the end.

In other words, stop dicking around and unlock the damn phone.

Isabel typed in the final number of the passcode and the screen unlocked.

She started with Marjorie’s text messages, scrolling quickly through a series of communications all sent before the conference began.

Natalia: No need to pick me up tomorrow. I will take the staff shuttle. See you soon!

Dr. Dodd: Ms. Ivanov, this is a reminder that your dental cleaning appointment is next Thursday at 3:00 pm. Please type YES to confirm.

Sunbeam Yoga: Hi! Just a friendly reminder that your trial membership will renew automatically in five days. Namaste!

Isabel was struck by the mundaneness of them all, not exactly the riveting stuff you’d expect to find on the phone of a murder victim.

But the search history was a different story.

With a growing coldness, Isabel scrolled through the browser’s list of recent search terms, her muscles tensing with every swipe.

Ian McCloud writing conference scandal

Ian McCloud canceled book

Who accused Ian McCloud of sexual assault?

Isabel’s blood turned to ice as she remembered what Darius said yesterday when they were searching McCloud’s room.

“There was such an uproar. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it.”

Isabel had heard about it, but she was forced to lie to conceal just how much she knew about Ian McCloud. She’d memorized every detail of that scandal. She’d pored over the story for days, obsessing over every headline, seeing her own face mirrored in the photographs on the news sites.

But why had Marjorie been looking into it?

Curiously, Isabel checked the time stamps on the searches. They were all from yesterday morning, shortly after McCloud was found dead. How had Marjorie accessed the internet?

Shivering, Isabel tapped on one of the browser’s open tabs, praying the phone’s memory had saved something. It had. A news article appeared on the screen, dated March 18, nearly two years ago, with the headline:

BREAKING: Identity of Ian McCloud’s Accuser Leaked

Isabel’s throat tightened. There were two accompanying photos—the standard publicity shot that graced McCloud’s book covers and beside it, a beautiful young woman with a heart-shaped face, waves of dark hair, and a smile that radiated exuberance and a hint of mischief.

Hungrily, Isabel skimmed the article.

The identity of the woman who anonymously accused bestselling author Ian McCloud of sexual assault has been leaked to multiple media outlets…

…the accuser was working on a psychological thriller titled Dead Girls Don’t Lie when she attended the Murder, Ink crime writers’ conference in Detroit…

…sources close to the publishing industry confirm that her agent was preparing to submit the manuscript to publishers in the coming weeks…

…the timing raised eyebrows among industry insiders, with some speculating whether the allegations were a calculated strategy to create buzz and drive up publisher interest…

“…if you truly want to remain anonymous, there are ways to do that,” said crisis PR expert Riley Jenkins. “When someone’s identity gets ‘leaked’ right before a book submission, it raises red flags about their true motivations…”

Isabel paused, thinking again about what Darius had said in McCloud’s room.

“There were all sorts of holes in her story. It turned out she was just trying to get publicity for a book.”

A chill whispered down Isabel’s spine. She refocused on the article and scrolled back up, studying the woman’s dark, spirited eyes, before rereading the first paragraph more closely.

…the accuser has been revealed to be 27-year-old aspiring writer Jasmine Palmer.

Before you ask, yes, it’s the same Jasmine.

Chapter Forty-Two

Creeeeak.

The faint sound broke through the silence of Marjorie’s room. Isabel froze, eyes darting to the door. Was someone out there?

Creeeeak.

The sound was unmistakable. Footsteps on old floorboards. She pocketed the phone and peered into the hallway.

Creeeeak.

It was coming from the service stairwell.

“Hello?” she called as she eased the stairwell door open, the hinges groaning. “Who’s there?” Then in a lighter, coaxing voice “Dexter, is that you?”

The silence that descended around her was thick with unease, broken only by the pounding of her heart. And then, almost imperceptibly, she caught the faintest whisper of an inhale.

Someone breathing.

“Hello?” she called again.

Footsteps erupted on the wooden stairs below. Rushed and frantic and human. Isabel peered over the railing but saw only a fleeting shadow as someone raced down the steps.

“Hey!” she shouted, her voice reverberating through the stairwell. “Stop!”

One floor below, a door creaked open and then slammed shut. Isabel bolted down the stairs and into the third-floor corridor, twisting and turning through the labyrinth of dim hallways. Every sharp corner was a dagger in the dark, every shifting shadow a killer ready to strike. Her heart raced as she stumbled after those footsteps, which always seemed five paces ahead, just out of reach.

Until they faded into silence.

Isabel froze, her heart pounding against her ribs. The silence stretched, taut as a wire, until—

Creeeeak.

This one came from behind her. Breathless, she spun and sprinted back the way she’d come, feeling like a rat trapped in a maze. A flicker of movement caught her eye—a vanishing silhouette. She navigated another tight turn, her shoulder painfully clipping the corner.

She was getting closer. She could feel it. She could hear it. Labored breaths just around the next corner. It was the killer! It had to be! Who else would run? Isabel picked up her pace and rounded the bend, only to find herself at a dead end. She skidded to a halt, confused by the solid stone wall in front of her.

She swore she’d been right behind someone. Had she taken a wrong turn? She whirled around, ready to retrace her steps, when a bone-chilling thought crashed into her mind.

What was the killer doing in the service stairwell?

Heart in her throat, she wound back through the hallways, listening for movement. But the only footsteps now were her own. She pulled open the door marked No Entry and froze, her gaze zeroing in on the detail she’d missed moments ago in her haste. Every inch of her body felt like it was submerged in ice water as she suddenly understood exactly why the killer had been here.

There were no more bits of wood scattered on the floor. No limbs twisted at unnatural angles or cold, lifeless eyes staring into nothing. Now the third-floor landing had an innocent, almost serene quality to it. As if all those previous horrors had been backspaced right off the page.

Marjorie’s body was gone.

Chapter Forty-Three

CLANG!

The deep, resonant sound of the gong shattered the silence of the foyer, startling Jade awake. She glanced at the coffee cup in her hand, miraculously unspilled. Had she fallen asleep?

CLANG!

The gong tolled again, like a menacing alarm clock, rousing her from some deep dreamless trance. Slowly, as if moving through thick molasses, she turned toward Simone, Bennett, Alastair, and Evelyn, who were blinking awake beside her, bleary-eyed and confused.

CLANG!

She squinted at the gong, her vision struggling to focus on the figure standing on the platform, holding the mallet with the confidence and authority of a presiding judge. Who was that?

“We need to search the monastery,” Isabel announced, returning the mallet to its holster.

Simone blinked, looking like she’d just woken from a dream. “Huh? Why?”

“Because Marjorie’s body is gone,” Isabel replied calmly.

“What?” Jade bolted upright in her seat.

“The killer must have moved it.” She glared at each of them. “And then cleaned up the crime scene. I heard them creeping around the stairwell. I followed them to the third floor but lost them in the corridors. I think they slipped into one of the rooms.”

“Who?” asked Evelyn, her eyes widening.

“Obviously, one of you,” Isabel said, folding her arms across her chest.

“But we were all asleep.” Alastair glanced bleary-eyed at the others, who all nodded. Except Evelyn, who looked lost in thought, pulling her locket back and forth along its chain.

“Well, clearly, not all of you,” said Isabel.

A tense silence fell as suspicious looks were cast around the room. The midday sun streamed through the windows, but it did nothing to stave off the chill that had settled over Isabel.

“Oh my god!” Simone shattered the silence with a gasp, whirling on Alastair. “Your room is on the third floor. And you were the one who originally suggested we move Marjorie’s body!”

“Yes. Because it was a dead body!” said Alastair, as if this were obvious. “Lying in the stairwell. Who wants to look at that?”

“Or you didn’t want us to look at it too closely.” Bennett pinned the agent with a glare.

“Why would I kill the housekeeper?” Alastair asked.

“Maybe,” Isabel began evenly, “because she figured out that you killed McCloud.”

Alastair snorted. “Oh, please. The agent who just got fired for allegedly stealing money from his top client? C’mon, darling. That’s low-hanging fruit. You’ve got to dig a little deeper than that.” He cut a meaningful glance at Simone. “Besides, Bennett’s room is on the third floor too.”

“That’s right!” Simone whirled on Bennett. “And you were the last one to arrive at the stairwell when we found the body. What were you doing before that?”

“Sleeping,” said Bennett, narrowing his eyes at Simone, “in your room. Remember?”

“Or pushing innocent housekeepers down the stairs,” muttered Simone.

“My room is on the third floor too!” Evelyn offered cheerfully, but no one noticed.

“You seem to be doing a lot of finger-pointing.” Bennett rounded on Simone. “You want to question where everyone was last night? Then let’s talk about how I woke up to find you gone.”

Isabel raised an eyebrow at Simone. “Really?”

“Yes!” Simone said defensively. “Because I heard Marjorie scream and came running.”

“Or you were already up,” said Bennett.

Color flooded Simone’s cheeks. “If anyone is guilty of murder here, it’s you, Bennett!”

“Hey! I have an alibi for both nights.”

“Yeah, me, and guess what? I lied!” Simone shot back.

“Wait!” Evelyn cut in, eyes alight with intrigue. “Has anyone checked the freezer lately?”

Bennett snorted. “You think the killer moved Marjorie’s body to the freezer? What, just to be helpful and preserve the evidence?”

“No,” Evelyn said with a sly grin. “I’m just thinking that if one body has gone missing…”

The group hesitated for a split second before everyone took off, charging into the kitchen, shoulders bumping as they all tried to squeeze through the doorway at once. They crammed into the tiny room, staring down the freezer door with a mixture of dread and morbid curiosity.

“You do it,” Simone urged Bennett.

“Why me?” Bennett asked. “You do it.”

“I’ll do it,” said Isabel. She sucked in a breath and with trembling hands, pulled open the large metal door. She could feel five other bodies pressing in behind her, eager to get a peek.

She breathed out a sigh. Ian McCloud’s skin had taken on a waxy pale-blue tinge, but he sat just where they’d left him.

“Why would the killer move one of their victims but not the other?” asked Jade.

“Maybe this proves there’s more than one killer,” said Simone.

“Or this crime scene was just messier,” Isabel reasoned. “McCloud’s murder was planned. The killer had time to cover their tracks. But Marjorie was killed out of desperation.”

“You know,” Evelyn said, fidgeting with her locket, “now that I think of it, I did notice something about Marjorie’s fingernails when we were in the stairwell.”

“Her fingernails?” asked Bennett doubtfully.

“Yes,” she replied. “If I recall, a few of them were broken, like they’d been snapped off during a struggle. If she managed to fight back against her killer, even for a moment, there would be DNA evidence all over her body. Skin cells, clothing fibers, perhaps even blood.”

A tense silence fell as eyes flickered around the group, scanning for torn fabric and fresh scratches.

“So the killer needed to clean up the body before anyone could look closer at it?” Simone asked.

Evelyn raised her brow. “Especially the police.”

“But they couldn’t do that while Marjorie was lying in full view in the stairwell,” Isabel concluded. “So, moving her was the only option.”

Everyone shivered.

“Quick! Shut the freezer!” said Evelyn. “We’re letting all the cold air out.”

Isabel closed the door and pressed her back against it. “Look. If the killer is trying to cover their tracks, then we need to find Marjorie’s body before they have time to do it.”

“Hold up.” Simone’s gaze cut to Isabel. “How do we know you didn’t move the body?”

Isabel rolled her eyes. “Why would I tell you about it if I did it?”

“To throw us off your trail,” said Simone. “You stash the body and then send us all over the monastery looking for it so you have time to cover your tracks.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Isabel spat. “I wouldn’t know the first place to stash a body.”

Bennett’s eyes flashed with sudden revelation. “No, but the facilitator would.”

One by one, all eyes snapped to Jade. It was like watching vultures close in on an injured, dying gazelle. Circling. Swooping. Waiting for their moment to strike.

“W-w-what are you talking about?” Jade took a wobbly step backward, banging against the metal countertop.

“You know this monastery better than any of us,” Bennett said in a low, menacing voice. “I imagine you would know all the best hiding spots.”

“I—” Jade stammered, “I don’t. I only got here a few hours before the rest of you.”

Isabel’s gaze slid to the magnetic strip on the wall. The row of freshly sharpened knives gleamed in the light, just within Jade’s reach.

“Why should we believe you?” Bennett took another step toward her, pinning her against the countertop. “Especially after you lied to us about the Wi-Fi network.”

“What?” shouted three people at once.

“There’s no Wi-Fi here,” Simone asserted.

“Oh, there’s Wi-Fi,” said Bennett. “I found it on the first day.”

“Where?” asked the same three people.

“I was in the lounge when I first noticed it,” Bennett replied, “but it was spotty. I was able to get some connection in the courtyard, but the strongest signal I could find was on the fourth floor.”

Isabel shivered, her mind flashing back to the search history on Marjorie’s phone. “That’s where the staff stay.”

A single confirming look passed over everyone, and then, like a swarm of bees with one hive mind, they bolted from the room again, thundering up the main staircase, desperate hands jostling for space on the handrail, footsteps echoing up four flights of stairs, until one by one, they all charged breathlessly into the darkened corridor of the attic. Simone and Alastair were already waving their phones around like amateur wizards trying to wield magic.

“I’m not getting anything,” complained Alastair.

“Me neither,” said Simone.

“I know. I’ve tried,” Bennett panted. “I haven’t been able to get a signal since Friday night.”

“Brr, it’s freezing up here.” Evelyn pulled her canary-yellow cardigan tighter around her shoulders. “Is there a window open?”

“Maybe she turns the network on and off at will,” said Alastair, cutting a look at Jade.

“How?” asked Isabel. “There’s no electricity and we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Portable battery-powered satellite system,” said Evelyn with a nod. “Very easy to get.”

All eyes swiveled back to Jade. Then, without warning, Simone lunged at the facilitator. “Turn it back on, you bitch!”

“Please!” Jade cowered. “I don’t know anything about a Wi-Fi network, I swear.”

Isabel stepped in front of Simone, blocking her path. “Okay, let’s all calm down.”

But no one was calm. Suddenly, everyone was shouting at once, jabbing accusing fingers at each other, voices echoing down the drafty corridor. Isabel tried to regain control but it was like trying to moor five rudderless boats in a stormy sea.

“Enough!” Alastair thundered, cutting through the commotion. “Let’s work through this rationally.” He clutched his forehead. “Bloody hell, I need a drink. Okay, someone moved Marjorie’s body. Obviously, it’s got to be one of us, because there’s no one else here, right?”

“That’s right,” Jade was quick to reply. “There’s no one else here.”

“Are you sure?” Alastair pressed.

Jade’s voice rose slightly. “Of course I’m sure.”

“Am I the only one who’s noticed?” Bennett peered around the group. “One of us is not here.”

Evelyn gasped. “Darius!”

The group all glanced at the stairs, poised for another mad dash.

“It wasn’t Darius!” Isabel cried before they could gain any momentum. “He’s completely cracked. He thinks we’re in a mystery novel, remember?”

“Or he’s just pretending!” exclaimed Evelyn. “Maybe this whole trapped-in-a-novel thing is a ruse to distract us. Then, while we’re all asleep, he’s off moving bodies and cleaning up crime scenes!”

Another argument broke out. Isabel tried to take deep breaths and gather her thoughts. Someone had brought a battery-powered satellite network to the conference? Obviously that was how Marjorie had searched the internet before she died, but why was she looking for information about Jasmine Palmer?

“Stop!” Isabel shouted over the noise. “We’re not going to get anywhere by arguing. One of us killed Marjorie and moved her body to hide incriminating evidence, which is why we need to find it.”

The hallway fell deathly quiet. No one seemed to know where to look, because looking at each other was suddenly out of the question.

“She’s right.” Alastair sighed. “We should search the entire place. Top to bottom. No stone unturned and all that.”

There was a moment of reluctance before slowly, acceptance rippled through the group.

“My, my, this is so exciting!” Evelyn said, clapping her hands. “It’s just like one of those murder mystery parties. I’ve always wanted to go to one.”

“Okay,” said Isabel, trying to organize her thoughts. “Jade, we’re going to need the keys to all the rooms in case any are locked. Will you get the spares from the office?”

Jade nodded, glancing uneasily at the others as if someone might lunge again.

“We’ll also need floor plans for the entire monastery,” Isabel went on.

“I saw some in my conference packet,” Bennett grumbled, clearly not keen on this idea. “I’ll get them.”

“And I’ll see if I can find Darius,” said Isabel. “We’ll meet in the foyer in ten minutes.”

“Splendid,” said Alastair. “Just enough time for a quick drink.” He offered an elbow to Evelyn. “Care to join me?”

“Oh, why not?” She took the agent’s arm and allowed herself to be led down the stairs.

As the rest of the group dispersed, Isabel descended the steps to the ground floor and stood alone in the middle of the foyer, surrounded by the silent judging stares of the stone statues and the haunting words of renowned crime writers framed on the wall. Just like when she’d first arrived, she got the unsettling feeling that she was being watched. She glanced at the nearest quote.

“Writing mysteries lets me get away with murder.”

—Gregory Mcdonald

“Not today,” Isabel vowed.

Okay. So far, so good. Marjorie’s body is missing. Everyone is pointing fingers at each other. And Isabel has initiated the big search sequence. Everything seems to be going according to the revised plan.

But I can’t get too cocky. Now is a precarious time when things could easily fall apart again. It’s important to tread carefully. I still have to play fair. Everything has to make sense. I don’t want to give anyone reason to claim my plot was “contrived.” Payoffs have to be properly set up. Threads have to feel logical.

There are no coincidences in good mystery novels. I must remember that. Everything has to have an organic trigger.

Thank god I had the foresight to set up Evelyn’s locket way back in Step 1. That will come in handy soon.

Chapter Forty-Four

“Comfy?” Isabel asked Darius as she entered the library to find him seated in a high-backed chair with his feet kicked up on an ottoman, reading a book. He looked more like he was on a resort vacation than trapped in a monastery with a cold-blooded killer.

He peered at her over the top of his book. “Very.”

She glanced around the library, taking in his scattered notes and index cards, now abandoned on the nearby table. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It doesn’t look like you’re doing much of anything.”

“Exactly.” He went back to reading.

“Okaaaay.”

“You see, a good novel is all about forward momentum. Action. Which means you definitely don’t want your main character sitting around reading all day.” He gestured grandly toward the library shelves. “So, here I am.”

Wow. He really has lost the plot.

“So, you’re purposefully trying to slow the momentum of the story?”

“Mm-hmm.” He turned the page.

“And why is that?”

“So the writer will give up.” He lowered the book to his lap. “The second half of the novel is when everything is supposed to be amping up. Tension, pacing, conflict, danger, stakes. Therefore, the worst thing a character can do is stop doing things. It’s like a tranquilizer dart to the plot. So if I do absolutely nothing, the story falls apart, and the writer quits.”

Satisfied with himself, Darius went back to reading his book. “Wow,” he mused a second later. “This is incredible. Look at this!”

He flipped the book around and pointed at the open page. Isabel had no idea what she was supposed to be impressed by. “Looks like a book.”

“I know, but it’s all written. There’s a whole story here.”

Once again, he’d lost her. “That’s typically what a book is.”

“I guess I expected to come up here and find all these books empty. You know, with blank pages inside. Just props to decorate the setting. But I picked up a few and they had writing in them.”

He flicked the cover of the book in his hand—Season of Dying Violets, by Ian McCloud. “This is a complete story. The serial killer who targets women with purple hair. The case within the case.”

“Case within the case?” Isabel repeated, scanning her memory for the reference. “Is that in The Bestseller Formula?”

Darius pulled his feet off the ottoman and leaned forward. “Yeah, but Jenna Blake calls it the ‘echo mystery.’ It’s a popular trope in murder mysteries. There’s often another crime—like a past murder—that happened before the story began.”

Without warning, Isabel’s mind flashed back to that night.

the cottage—the door—the woman—

“The past crime seems unconnected to the main storyline at first,” Darius continued, “but it’s eventually revealed to be a key clue, often used to highlight the story’s theme or teach the main character an important lesson.”

Isabel brushed a finger over the scar on her forehead. Was that why she’d been invited here? Why she’d received the security footage from McCloud’s house? Because someone wanted to teach her a lesson? To make her pay for her crime?

“I’m just saying,” Darius was still blathering on, “the writer of this novel put a lot of work into the world-building.” He tapped the paperback in his lap. “She had to create a whole catalog of Ian McCloud books, each with titles and plots and—”

“Wait a second.” Isabel jolted out of her thoughts. “She?”

“Oh, yeah, right. I decided the writer is most likely a woman.” He leaned back in the chair.

“How on earth did you decide that?”

“I mean, I don’t know for sure,” Darius admitted. “It’s just a gut feeling. It’s hard to explain, but there’s this kind of maternal energy about the way she’s writing me into the story. Like she wants to protect me and nurture me, but also punish me at the same time. A tough love kinda thing.”

“And you don’t think that has anything to do with your own mother?”

Darius looked like he’d been slapped and she instantly felt guilty. She cleared her throat. “Listen. We’re searching the monastery in a few minutes and—”

“You’re what?” Darius sat up straighter.

“Someone moved Marjorie’s body, probably to hide evidence. We’re going to look for it.”

“No, you can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s exactly what the writer wants!” Darius launched from his chair and started pacing and mumbling to himself. “What the hell is she doing? She found a way to get to Step 7 and launch the Second Investigation without me? How did she get everyone to organize a search—”

“I organized the search,” Isabel cut in defensively. “It was my idea.”

But Darius was barely listening. “She’s changing detectives mid-novel? She can’t! No one does that. You can’t just promote the helper character to detective halfway through. It’s against the rules—” He froze and glanced up at Isabel with sudden inspiration. “She’s on to me. She knows I’m trying to sabotage her so she’s revising the plot. She’s writing around me to continue the story.”

“Okay, so I guess you won’t be joining us.” Isabel turned to leave.

“Wait!” he called out. “How did she do it?”

“Do what?”

“Recruit you?”

Isabel was running out of patience. “No one recruited me. I simply—”

“You found a new piece of evidence, didn’t you?”

She froze.

“What was it?” Darius asked with a hint of amusement. “A blackmail note, a potential murder weapon, a cellphone?”

Isabel’s body stiffened, giving her away.

“Ah, the elusive cellphone. Classic device to deliver information. And a clever way to hook you too. This writer is smart. Let me guess, you also knew the passcode.”

Her stomach clenched. “How did you know that?”

“You have to remember, none of this is accidental. There are no coincidences in good mystery novels. She wouldn’t have had you find the phone if you couldn’t open it.” He gasped. “Your eidetic memory! I knew that would come in handy. I bet she originally planned for me to find the phone and for you, the helper character, to unlock it.”

Isabel huffed. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Don’t do it,” Darius warned, darting in front of her. “Don’t do the search.”

“Why not?” Isabel threw up her hands. “A dead body is missing. We need to find it.”

He exhaled a loud sigh. “You won’t find it. At least not yet.”

“I have to go, Darius.”

Isabel tried to get around him but he blocked her path again. “No one ever finds what they’re looking for in the search sequence. That’s not what it’s for. It’s about building tension and stakes, putting the characters in more and more danger. The writer is leading you into a trap.”

She rolled her eyes and pressed past him. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to watch my step.”

“Who did you get paired with?” Darius called out from behind her.

Isabel turned around. “What?”

“She divided you into groups to search the monastery, right? It’s usually pairs.”

“No,” Isabel said defiantly. “We’re all searching together.”

“No, you’re not,” Darius said with a certainty that grated her nerves. “Just wait. Someone will suggest you split up. That’s what you do as the writer. You have one of the characters say it’s to cover more ground, but really you split up the group so you can pair the right people together.”

A tiny shiver worked its way down her spine. “The right people?”

“The pairings are very important. They’re designed to amp up the tension and reveal information the reader needs to know. Then of course someone has to be paired with the killer.”

“You know, some people are saying you’re the killer.” Isabel raised her brows.

Darius snorted. “Yeah, right. I think I’d remember killing someone.”

“Not if you’re sleep-deprived and therefore unreliable.”

“I’m not unreliable.”

“And you do know a lot about plotting a murder,” Isabel pointed out.

“Which is how I know what’s going to happen next!” Darius argued. “It’s all part of the formula. She planted the phone for you to find and used you to launch the Second Investigation. Which means we’re heading into Step 8.”

“Step 8,” Isabel repeated with another shiver.

“It’s called Danger Descends for a reason.” Darius’s tone was ominous. “ ‘Threats and danger escalate as the detective gets closer to the truth. This is when suspicions mount, new evidence and motives are revealed, and someone’s life is at stake.’ ”

Isabel flinched. “That was word for word from the book. Do you have an eidetic memory too?”

“No.” His gaze dropped to the floor. “I’ve just read it more than a few times.”

“Look, Darius.” Her patience had officially run out. “We’re searching this monastery with or without you. So what’s it gonna be?”

Darius didn’t move. She took that as her final answer. At least this time, when she strode toward the door, he didn’t try to stop her.

A single bead of sweat dripped down the back of Bennett’s neck. He stood in the center of his room, dragging his gaze across every visible surface. He was running out of time. Soon, an army of wannabe detectives would start tearing the building apart, searching for a body. Who would have thought a dead housekeeper would cause so much havoc?

With shaking hands, he withdrew a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, barely able to aim the lighter. He inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke fill his lungs. It soothed his frayed nerves, but only a little. Too much had gone wrong this weekend. One little cigarette couldn’t keep up.

Relax, he told himself. They won’t find anything.

But there was no way to be sure of that. Not in this place where everything seemed to shift without warning. No plan lasted for more than a few hours. He’d thought Darius would be the problem, but he was wrong. Now Isabel was on a vendetta to find a dead body.

He pulled out his notebook.

Isabel Torres: Our latest amateur bloodhound, prowling the darkness, unearthing plot threads that should remain buried. Her face and the fire of that tattoo inked somewhere in my memory—

His purple pen scratched to a halt as a thought fluttered into his mind. What if she wasn’t satisfied with just searching the building? He hastily flipped back through the pages of his folio—years of entries, of characters he’d collected with his shrewd observations.

His gaze landed on a note he’d angrily scribbled six months ago, after he’d shown McCloud his latest manuscript and the asshole refused to let his agent represent it.

The jealous taskmaster: A miser draped in fine fabric, hoarding talent like gold, fearful that others might outshine him and escape his shadow, leaving him clutching only his insecurities.

Bennett’s chest constricted as he realized what he must do. There was no other choice. He couldn’t risk this being found—not by the fake detectives or the real ones who would eventually arrive and dig even deeper.

Numb with dread, he ceremoniously flipped through every page, his fingers lingering on the indentations of ink—the color of dark mulberry wine. Each word seemed to pulse with life, begging to be spared. The growing lump in his throat threatened to choke him.

He closed the folio and touched the smooth leather surface and creased spine, memorizing every imperfection. Then, with a resolve that felt like tearing out his own heart, he tossed it into the cold, dormant fireplace.

For an agonizing moment, he stood there, finger hovering over the propane switch, the weight of literary history pressing down on him. With a shuddering breath, Bennett flipped the switch and struck his lighter, watching his precious life’s work erupt in flames.

That was the last of it. The end. There was no more evidence of what he’d done. All that was left behind was his favorite purple pen, a reminder that he always had the power to start again.

It wasn’t until he returned the pen to his pocket that he noticed something else in there. Curiously, Bennett withdrew the small object and studied it in his palm.

What the fuck?

How had this flash drive gotten into his pocket? Had someone slipped it in while he was asleep? Bennett’s fist clenched around the small device. The sharp metal edges dug into his palm, taunting him, changing his plans once more.

“Jasmine?” Jade whispered into the first-floor staff bathroom, but just like the rest of the rooms in the service corridor, this one was empty.

She yanked off her glasses and turned on the faucet. With the power out, the pressure was weak but she was able to splash some cold water on her face.

Everything was falling apart. Help was not coming. They’d been trapped here for almost two days. There was barely any food left in the pantry. Jade had been forced to put out crackers and jelly for breakfast. The others were starting to turn on her. Marjorie had been murdered!

And Jasmine was MIA. Again.

What if she’d left? Found a way out? Would she really do that? Leave Jade to fend for herself when this whole thing was her idea?

Jade had agreed to come here only because she thought she was protecting her sister. After what Ian McCloud put her through, Jasmine’s reckless plan had seemed worth the risk. But she should have known better. When had Jasmine’s schemes ever gone to plan? But this was different. Two people were dead.

Panic and desperation clawed at her throat. The tears she’d been holding back for the past half hour broke free. All that anxiety—Marjorie’s missing body, Bennett’s accusations, everyone’s probing eyes—boiled over like a burst pipe.

Jade tried to cling to a shred of certainty, refusing to believe her sister would just leave. Not this time. Jasmine had to still be here…somewhere.

CLANG!

The gong reverberated throughout the monastery, summoning everyone back to the foyer. The search was about to begin. Soon, no hiding place would be safe.

Jade dabbed at her cheeks and dried her eyes with a paper towel. She peered again into the mirror, sliding her glasses back on and smoothing her blond hair, disguising her reflection once again. She had no idea where her sister was. But she did know one thing.

For once, she had to start protecting herself.

Chapter Forty-Five

“Are we all here?” Isabel glanced out at the group that had assembled in the foyer.

“Darius isn’t here,” Evelyn pointed out.

“He’s not coming,” Isabel muttered.

“Why do I have to search and he doesn’t?” complained Bennett.

“Oh, grow up,” snapped Simone.

“Where’s the facilitator?” asked Alastair.

“I’m right here.” Jade emerged from a darkened hallway, brandishing a tangle of brass keys bound together by twine. “I brought the spare keys.”

“Excellent,” praised Alastair. “Shall we begin?”

“Wait!” Evelyn cried out, her hand desperately clutching her neck. “My locket! It’s gone.”

Everyone glanced feebly at the floor, as if it might be just underfoot.

“Maybe you forgot to put it on this morning,” said Simone.

“Maybe the cat took it,” muttered Bennett.

“No.” Evelyn shook her head. “Y’all don’t understand. I never take it off. I wear it every day. It must have fallen off when we were running up and down the stairs. I have to go find it.”

“Is now really the time?” asked Alastair with a twinge of impatience. “Shouldn’t we be prioritizing the missing body?”

“Oh.” Evelyn’s hand fell from her neck. “Right. Of course.”

“So,” Alastair continued with an air of importance, seizing command of the group. “We’ll start on this floor and work our way up. Where are the floor plans?”

Bennett pulled out a pile of pages but Isabel intercepted them. “Actually, I think we should start on the fourth floor. That’s where I first heard the footsteps.”

“But didn’t you follow the killer to the third floor?” said Simone. “Shouldn’t we start there?”

“If I were to hide a body,” Evelyn mused, “I’d hide it outside, somewhere on the grounds.”

“I know!” Bennett mocked in his best Alastair accent. “Why don’t we search the study, then the ballroom, then the conservatory!” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, right. I keep forgetting it’s not a game of fucking Clue.” He snatched the floor plans from Isabel. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

Isabel angrily grabbed them back. “What we’re going to do is start with the fourth floor and work our way down.”

“That’s completely inefficient!” Bennett argued. “We should divide the monastery into zones and split into groups.”

Isabel froze. “W-w-what did you say?”

“We’ll cover much more ground if we search in pairs,” Bennett said reasonably.

“Pairs?” Isabel barely got the word out around her rapidly closing throat.

“B-b-but…” Simone stammered. “That means one of us will be paired with the killer.”

“Then I guess we’ll have no trouble figuring out who the killer is,” joked Evelyn.

No one laughed.

“I think it’s an excellent plan,” said Alastair, taking charge again as if the idea were his all along. He plucked the floor plans from Isabel and began distributing them. “The assistant and the cat lady will search the grounds. The mistress and I will cover the first and second floors—”

“Do you know any of our names?” asked Simone, bristling.

Alastair waved this off as an inconsequential detail and handed the last set of floor plans to Isabel. “And fantasy girl, you and the facilitator will take the third and fourth floors.”

Isabel’s eyes darted to Jade as Darius’s words resurfaced in her mind.

“…you split up the group so you can pair the right people together.”

All of Isabel’s senses were screaming that this was a terrible idea. And she clearly wasn’t alone. An uneasy silence filled the foyer as everyone shot dubious glances at their search partners. The only one who didn’t look rattled by this turn of events was Bennett.

In fact, he looked almost proud of himself.

Step 8

“Danger Descends”

Chapter Forty-Six

The kitchen was empty when Darius arrived later that afternoon. Everyone was already off searching the monastery like the obedient little characters they were. He brewed himself a large pot of coffee and carried it back to the library, where he found his messy scattering of notes and index cards on the table, exactly where he’d left them.

It was clear that Darius needed a new plan. Sitting around all day doing nothing wouldn’t work if the writer was just going to break the rules of storytelling and change detectives halfway through. Apparently, he did need to do something, but what?

His smartwatch beeped, alerting him yet again of his precarious situation.

“You’re in a massive sleep deficit. You’re clearly not in your right mind.”

Carefully, methodically, he unclasped the watch, placed it on the floor, lifted up a nearby chair, and with a calm, steady hand, smashed the device again and again until it finally stopped beeping.

He exhaled deeply. Much better. He’d never be able to work with that constant distraction.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table just as Dexter meandered in. Darius nodded politely at the cat, who offered a curt “Meow” in return before curling up in a patch of fading sunlight.

Darius picked up his copy of The Bestseller Formula and flipped it open. He’d read it so many times he could find the page he was looking for with his eyes closed. He skipped past the first twelve chapters, each detailing a step of the formula, until he reached the second half of the book—the subgenres—where Jenna Blake broke down the different types of crime novels.

If he could figure out what kind of mystery he was in, he’d have a better chance of sabotaging its plot. Was this a noir? A police procedural? A cozy? It did have a cat. But the cat was a known serial killer, and Bennett said fuck a lot, so probably not a cozy. It wasn’t a hard-boiled detective, that was for sure. Those featured gritty urban gumshoes like Marlow Griggs, solving crimes in the rough underbelly of the city. Darius wouldn’t even step off a curb without a crosswalk.

He continued to flip through the book until he reached the chapter titled:

Isolated Setting

It was a subgenre made popular by And Then There Were None, by Agatha Christie, in the early twentieth century and still popular today.

Darius took a gulp of coffee and began reviewing the long list of subgenre tropes outlined in the chapter. Jenna Blake described tropes as “familiar patterns that show up again and again in certain types of mysteries” and advised writers to use them like tools in a toolbox, picking and choosing which ones work best for the story.

“Remote location?” Darius read aloud from the list. “Check. No outside communication? Check. Deteriorating sanity?” Darius skipped over that one but paused at the next, a chill running through him as he read the words.

A mysterious establishment with an ominous past

“So, this is where the staff stay, huh?” Isabel tried for small talk as she and Jade crept down the creaking fourth-floor corridor with its low ceilings and sharp corners. In some places the plaster had peeled away from the walls, revealing the old stones beneath, cold and unyielding. “It’s…nice.”

Jade didn’t reply. She darted another furtive glance in Isabel’s direction, those icy blue eyes penetrating the shadows like daggers. Isabel couldn’t stop shivering. She didn’t know if it was because she was back in the drafty attic or because she was there with a potential murderer.

“Someone has to be paired with the killer.”

But Jade moved more like prey than predator—flinching at every sound, as if she expected the killer to jump out from the shadows.

“Where do you want to go first?” she asked, peering hesitantly around the next corner.

Isabel pulled the floor plan from her pocket and squinted at the dizzying maze of rooms. In truth, she didn’t need it—she’d memorized the layout the day she’d arrived. But there was something about the map she hadn’t noticed before. “That’s odd.”

Isabel’s gaze bounced between the floor plan and the arched recess directly in front of her. “According to this, there should be a staircase to the bell tower under that arch.” She knocked against the drywall. The sound was heavy and compact. “This is solid.”

“You have it upside down,” said Jade, nodding toward the map. “The two wings of the monastery mirror each other. The bell tower stairs are in the north wing. We’re in the south wing.”

Curiously, Isabel turned the map around and studied it again. “But aren’t there two towers?”

“This one was sealed off years ago.” Jade nodded at the wall. “After the stairwell collapsed and killed a man.”

“Oh my god.” Isabel swallowed, bile rising in her throat. “That’s awful.”

“It was in your welcome packet,” Jade said flatly, as if that somehow excused the tragedy.

“Okay, well, I suppose we can start with the north tower—”

“Oh, I doubt Marjorie’s body is up there,” Jade blurted out, before quickly composing herself. “I mean, have you seen it? It’s not exactly an ideal place to hide anything. The winding staircase would be nearly impossible to drag a body up.”

Isabel shuddered at the image. Jade was acting stranger than usual, which made Isabel even more interested in that tower.

“I still think it’s worth taking a look.” She was careful to keep her voice neutral, relaxed. “Just to cover all our—”

“Or we could start with my room.” Jade interrupted again, her tone oddly firm.

Isabel narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Because it’s right there.” She pointed to the door behind Isabel.

“Oh.” She let out a nervous laugh. “Right, I suppose that makes sense.”

Jade pulled her room key from her pocket. As she fumbled with the lock, a faint rustling whispered down the corridor, causing them both to jump.

“What the hell was that?” Isabel asked, clutching her chest.

Jade composed herself quickly. “The hallways up here make strange noises.” She pushed open the door with a long, hollow creak and gestured for Isabel to enter. “You get used to it.”

Darius rifled through the papers on his desk until he found his welcome packet. Inside was a page detailing the historical background of the monastery. He scanned it.

…the Monastery of the Shrouded Vale was modeled after the medieval monasteries of Europe…

…typical of the design were monastic cells where the monks would lock themselves away for long periods of intense contemplation, sometimes even sealing off the entrance to ensure complete solitude…

…after a man was crushed to death in a collapse of the south bell tower staircase, the monastery was forced to close…

He stopped reading and added the trope to his growing list. Definitely a mysterious establishment with an ominous past. He moved on to the next.

“Limited cast of characters and suspects?” he read aloud and turned to Dexter for consultation. The cat didn’t look up from his sunbathing. “We started out as nine and now only seven remain—eight, counting you. Logically, one of us has to be the killer, right?” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Unless the writer is relying on another popular trope…”

His gaze fell to the next item on the list and a shiver rippled through him.

The uninvited guest

“Someone present in the story but not known or seen by the other characters,” Darius read. “Also referred to as ‘the hidden villain,’ this extra character often turns out to be the killer or a concealed observer with a secret agenda.”

The facilitator’s room was immaculate, every item meticulously aligned, from the squared stack of books on the nightstand to the precisely spaced hangers in the closet. As Isabel poked around, she was acutely aware of Jade’s vigilant gaze from the doorway, flinching every time Isabel opened a door or pushed aside a curtain.

The bathroom was just as pristine, toiletries arranged in a straight line from smallest to largest, towels folded with surgical precision. Which was why the black garment crumpled behind the door was impossible to miss. With one eye on the door, Isabel crouched and lifted it by the corner, revealing an old T-shirt with slashes in the fabric and a familiar insignia on the front.

Twisted Sister?

Isabel knew the band. Her dad used to listen to heavy metal when she was a kid—only when her mother wasn’t around. Mami thought the music was too angry, too loud. Twisted Sister wasn’t just loud, but confrontational, famous for the song “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” about rising up against the establishment. This shirt belonged to Jade? The facilitator who wore nothing but tailored suits and stiff blazers? The image just didn’t fit.

“All good?” Jade called from outside the door.

Isabel dropped the shirt back on the floor.

“Yes,” she said, emerging from the bathroom. “We can go.” She turned to leave just as something outside the window caught her eye. She stepped closer, her gaze narrowing.

“What is it?” Jade asked from the doorway, a hint of alarm in her voice. “What do you see?”

“Your room faces the parking lot,” Isabel said absently, staring at the same view she’d seen earlier from Marjorie’s room: a blue sedan parked in the middle of the small dirt lot.

“All the staff rooms face the parking lot,” said Jade, sounding confused.

Isabel spun toward her. “Do any of the guest rooms face the parking lot?”

“I don’t think so,” said Jade. “They all face the grounds or the courtyard. Is that important?”

Isabel shook her head, her mind whirling. She forced a smile onto her face. “No. Not important. Let’s move on.”

Jade’s intense gaze followed her through the room and out the door, like the crosshairs of a rifle trained on a moving target. Isabel tried to keep her stride casual but her trembling hands betrayed her as she withdrew the floor plan. The map swam before her eyes, a dizzying grid of rooms rearranging themselves like shifting puzzle pieces—Jade’s room, Marjorie’s room, the tower, the service stairwell. Until suddenly, everything snapped into place with cold clarity.

Marjorie’s room was right next to the service stairwell where they found her body. She’d been arguing with someone before she was pushed to her death. Jade’s room, just down the hall, had a perfect view of the parking lot. Making Jade the only person who saw Marjorie return last night.

Something creaked in the hallway, followed by the slow groan of a door opening.

Isabel whirled, heart racing. “What was that?”

Jade stared past her, gaze fixed, as if waiting for something. “It’s probably just Dexter.”

Another creak. Isabel peered into the dim corridor but everything was drowned in shadows. She stepped toward the sound.

“You know,” Jade said suddenly, “I was thinking about what Bennett said downstairs. It does seem more efficient if we split up, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“You could take the third floor and I’ll finish the fourth,” said Jade, pulling out her makeshift ring of spare keys. “We’ll be much quicker that way.”

Isabel’s eyes snapped to Jade, suddenly drawn in by her chin-length hair—too blond to be natural—and her ice-blue eyes, which were unmistakably brown last night. As she watched the facilitator carefully remove keys from the loop of twine, her gaze zeroed in on their jagged metal teeth, and a chilling realization seeped into her. Jade had keys to the entire monastery. She could go anywhere. Do anything. Lock or unlock any door. Bennett was right—if anyone had the means to kill someone and hide the body, it was Jade.

“Good idea,” Isabel agreed in a carefully casual tone. “Let’s split up and meet downstairs when we’re done.”

“Okay.” The keys clinked quietly in Jade’s trembling grip. She hesitated, eyes darting to meet Isabel’s, then spun away and strode down the hallway—in the very direction, Isabel noted, of those strange creaking sounds.

Isabel waited five full seconds before following after her.

“Multiple Points of View and Unreliable Narrators,” Darius read aloud. “This popular trope is used often in modern mysteries to give the reader access to multiple characters’ thoughts, while also casting doubt on the credibility of those thoughts.”

He leaned back in his chair and glanced at Dexter, still lounging nearby. “I wonder if the writer gave you a point of view.” The cat lifted his head and let out a disdainful sniff.

“You’re right,” Darius agreed. “That would be too much.”

Darius cast his gaze around the library, remembering how Isabel had stood right there and called him unreliable because of his sleep deficit. Yes, he’d had an untreated sleep disorder since he was a kid that sometimes blurred the lines of reality and drove him to obsession. But what about Isabel?

He flashed back on her glassy eyes the night of Marjorie’s murder, the sleeping pills stashed in her nightstand. And didn’t she say she used to lie a lot as a kid? Those character traits certainly made for an unreliable narrator, but it seemed as though everyone here was hiding something.

If Darius were reading this novel, he’d question every narrator.

Jade didn’t slow until she reached room 406. She shoved open the door, already knowing exactly what she would find inside. Or rather who.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she whispered angrily, shutting and locking the door behind her.

Jasmine was standing in front of the open closet, rifling through hangers. “Whose room is this?”

“Chef Melissa’s, I think. Why?”

“She has terrible taste in clothes.”

“This isn’t funny, Jasmine. Marjorie is dead.”

“I know,” Jasmine said flatly. She paused at a pair of leopard print leggings and wrinkled her nose. “This is what the chef wears?”

Jade collapsed on the bed and buried her face in her hands. “Please, Jasmine. I can’t do this anymore. I’m freaking out. I thought you were gone.”

“Hey.” Jasmine’s voice softened as she sat beside Jade, putting an arm around her. For the first time in a while, Jade didn’t stiffen at her sister’s touch. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

“But I can never find you when I actually need you.”

Jasmine hesitated. “I’ve been…busy.”

“Doing what?”

Jasmine arched a brow, causing Jade to shudder.

“Look, I’m sorry for what I said yesterday,” Jade blurted out, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. I do need you.”

“I know,” Jasmine said, squeezing her tighter. “We need each other. We just have to get what we came for and then this will all be over.”

Her throat went dry. “I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can.”

“People are already getting suspicious.”

“To hell with them!” Jasmine shouted. “We need McCloud’s laptop!”

“But Darius said it was missing.”

“And this search is the perfect opportunity to find it.”

The daunting directive hung heavy and menacing in the air.

“I wish we could switch places,” Jade whispered, her vision blurring with fresh tears.

Jasmine was strangely quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “You know that none of this is your fault, right?”

“It is,” Jade argued. “It’s all my fault.”

“That’s your problem, Jadey. You’ve always taken on too much. You blame yourself for things that are out of your control.”

Jade dropped her head into her hands again, succumbing to a torrent of sobs. This conference felt like a carnival ride that kept spinning and never stopped. Jade had always hated carnival rides. She didn’t trust anything that could be dismantled in a day. Jasmine, of course, loved them.

Come on, Jadey, she liked to say, life is too short to skip the scary rides.

It always ended the same. With Jasmine screaming in delight in Jade’s ear and Jade trying not to vomit.

Now she felt like she might vomit again. She searched the small room for something to anchor her attention to, something unmoving. Her gaze landed on a frame hanging on the wall.

“Life is about working out who the bad guy is.”

—Sophie Hannah

As if life were really that simple. As if the world were divided into good guys and bad guys. Heroes and villains. Detectives and murderers. It simply didn’t work that way. There were gray areas everywhere. Jade should know. She’d been living in one for two years.

“You’re right.” Jade wiped her eyes, her voice steadying as her anxiety crystallized into something colder. Steelier. She stood up and glared at her sister. “This is not my fault. It’s yours.”

“Jadey—”

“Stop, Jasmine. Just stop. You told me this was going to be easy. You promised me no one else would get hurt. And now two people are dead!”

A soft telltale creak punctured the silence. Jasmine’s eyes snapped to the door. “Did you hear that?” she asked, barely a whisper.

Jade held her breath, straining to listen. At first, stillness. And then another creak. Someone was outside the door.

Jade’s heart leapt into her throat, hammering so fiercely it choked the air out of her. Seconds stretched, unbearable. Finally, she tiptoed to the door and slowly turned the lock.

The stillness shattered. Swift muffled footsteps retreated down the hall.

Jade yanked open the door and squinted into the darkness. She could just make out a head of dark curls as Isabel darted around a corner. Panic bloomed in Jade’s chest. But before she could put words to the fear, true to form, Jasmine got there first.

“She heard.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Jasmine.

The name beat like a battle drum in Isabel’s mind, propelling her forward.

Jasmine…Palmer.

As she ran down the fourth-floor corridor, deeper and deeper into the north wing, Alastair’s words from earlier bounced around in her mind.

“It’s got to be one of us. Because there’s no one else here, right?”

And then Jade—so quick to confirm it. “That’s right. There’s no one else here.”

But there was.

“Jasmine Palmer is here,” Isabel whispered into the empty hallway as she rounded the corner, the truth unspooling like thread in her mind.

Marjorie’s missing body.

The phantom footsteps Isabel had chased through the corridors when everyone was asleep.

The dark figure she’d seen from the dining room window last night.

The strange creaking sounds in the hallways.

Everything suddenly made sense when you added one more person to the equation. A person whose life had imploded when her accusations against Ian McCloud were discredited. A person pictured in an article on Marjorie’s phone.

Isabel stopped and fished the housekeeper’s phone out of her pocket, clicking on the next open tab in the browser. Another article. This one was dated March 20, two days after Jasmine’s identity had been revealed.

Ian McCloud Assault Claims Under Fire as Key Details Proven False

Isabel knew the story. She’d obsessed over it for days. But now, scanning the text, it felt like she was reading it with new eyes.

…assault allegations against bestselling author Ian McCloud are facing serious scrutiny after hotel security footage and internal records revealed significant inconsistencies in the accuser’s account of events…

…McCloud, 55, was speaking at the renowned crime writing conference in Detroit when he met his accuser, 27-year-old aspiring novelist Jasmine Palmer…

…according to Palmer’s statement, McCloud invited her to his hotel room—room 519—to offer advice on her novel and then assaulted her in the hallway at 11:50 p.m. Hallway security cameras were out of commission that night, however hotel records show McCloud was registered in room 1207, not 519…

…sources familiar with McCloud’s social media habits note that the author frequently posts misleading room numbers to avoid unwanted fan visits…

…further complicating the account, Palmer described McCloud as wearing a navy sweater during the alleged assault, which matches Instagram photos posted earlier that night, however, lobby security footage shows McCloud stepping off the elevator at 10:45 in a burgundy shirt after wine was spilled on him at a drinks reception…

“…it appears she pulled key details from his public social media rather than from personal experience,” said former prosecutor Jana Davenport, who specializes in assault cases. “This raises serious questions about the authenticity of her account…”

Isabel’s heart pounded as she hastily clicked on the next tab, an article published a week later.

McCloud’s Accuser Has History of Manipulation, Ex-Boyfriends Say

With every swipe, every quote, the story got worse. The truth twisted and darkened. Jasmine became less and less of a victim and more and more of a predator.

“…Jasmine knew how to get what she wanted from people…”

“…she had a way of twisting the situation to benefit herself…”

“…Jasmine had to be in control of the narrative at all times…”

…combined with recent evidence calling her account into question, this pattern of manipulative behavior has sparked a public backlash and a community-wide debate on victim credibility…

Isabel shut her eyes as the truth crystallized in her mind.

Jasmine Palmer murdered Ian McCloud. Marjorie figured it out. She must have seen Jasmine creeping around, recognized her from the news, searched the internet to be sure, and then confronted her. A confrontation that got her pushed down the stairs.

“The backlash against her was merciless. She completely vanished from the public eye. No one’s heard from her since.”

It all fit. Jasmine was a mystery writer, too. She would have been familiar with The Bestseller Formula. After her allegations against Ian McCloud were ripped apart and her reputation and career destroyed, she spent two years hiding out, orchestrating her revenge, plotting it like a murder mystery. A fitting end for a famous mystery writer.

Except she couldn’t do it all alone. Too many people would recognize her—Alastair, Darius, Simone, McCloud, Bennett. Even Isabel knew her face from the news. She needed help. Someone on the inside. Someone who could silently manipulate everything and everyone from behind the scenes. An accomplice. Or—

With a gasp, Isabel’s eyes flew open.

A facilitator.

Isabel pocketed the phone and wove deeper into the north wing until she arrived at the arched recess jutting out from the hallway. The entrance to the north bell tower.

She heaved the heavy door open. The rusty hinges groaned. Her flashlight beam cut through the murky shadows, revealing a steep, narrow staircase that spiraled into darkness.

Jade had been determined not to search this tower. And Isabel had a feeling she knew why.

“The winding staircase would be nearly impossible to drag a body up.”

Maybe for one person, but what about two?

The thought spurred her on, and with a deep, shaky breath, Isabel began her ascent.

Darius poured himself another cup of coffee and reviewed his finalized list.

Remote location

No outside communication

A mysterious establishment with an ominous past

Limited cast of characters

The uninvited guest???

Multiple points of view and unreliable narrators

Inescapable environment

As far as he could tell, the writer had used nearly every isolated setting trope in the book. It was almost as though she were working through them like a checklist.

His gaze zeroed in on the last item. It was the one that was bothering him the most. But he couldn’t figure out why.

“What do you think, Dexter?”

The cat lifted his head and studied him with mild curiosity.

“The inescapable environment seems effectively set up. The landslide blocked the bridge and the mountain road is completely impassable. No way out.” Darius leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest. “At least, that’s what Alastair said…”

Dexter’s tail flicked back and forth.

“Alastair was the one who tried to leave on the first day but couldn’t because of the blocked bridge. Then, conveniently, it was also Alastair who tried to leave yesterday, only to return with the news that we were still trapped. Has anyone else seen this alleged roadblock?” Darius raised an eyebrow at the cat. “Possibly Marjorie. And now she’s dead.”

He took another sip of coffee, letting the caffeine tickle his brain and activate his one and only superpower. A “sixth sense for plot,” his subscribers had called it. Up until now, the writer had used it to guide him through the story, sending vibrations through his bones to point him in the right direction. Her direction. But Darius was done following her plan, her outline. He’d adhered to his mother’s plan for eighteen years and it had resulted in nothing but frustration.

It was time to take back his superpower and use it for his own purposes.

Darius stood up and began pacing the length of the library. “So far, the writer has done an impeccable job constructing the elements of this story,” he reasoned aloud. “She’s followed the formula to the letter and included all the right tropes. But no writer can construct every element flawlessly. All writers make mistakes. They’re human and humans are, by nature, fallible.”

The cat gave a small snort of agreement.

“Every writer will get lazy with some aspect of the storytelling. And of course, no author is immune to plot holes.” Darius froze, a tingle shooting down his spine.

He snatched up his pen and circled the last trope on the list, determination crystallizing inside him, along with something dark and destructive.

All he had to do was find one mistake, one snag in the construction of the plot, and he could rip it wide open. He could pull at the broken thread like a tear in the fabric of the universe, creating a black hole big enough to swallow up this whole novel and everything in it.

Me? Make mistakes?

Me? Get lazy?

My story? Contain plot holes?

Puh-lease.

You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Darius. There are no holes in my plot. I’ve put too much effort into this to leave anything to chance. I’ve sacrificed too much to let anything fall through the cracks. This story is airtight.

I think…

No, I’m sure.

Fairly sure.

Goddamn it, Darius! You’re really starting to piss me off.

The problem is, if I did miss something, if there is a hole somewhere, Darius Walker is probably the only person here clever enough to find it. Because we’re cut from the same cloth, Darius and I. We’re more similar than he’ll ever know.

He described it as a maternal energy and that’s not far off. I do often think of Darius as a son. It’s perfectly normal. Writers fall in love with their characters all the time. It’s what breathes life into them. If I don’t love him, how can you?

But Darius was always different. I felt something deeper for him than any other character. I know parents aren’t supposed to have favorite children, but Darius is mine. That’s why it’s going to be so hard to do what I have to do.

I open the top drawer of my desk, where I keep my Glock 42. Just the sight of it reminds me that I hold all the power here. This is my story and I’m not going to let anyone take it away from me.

I reach out and brush my fingertips against the barrel. It feels cold to the touch. As cold as the ice congealing around my already frozen heart.

I’m sorry, Darius. But I know better than to let my feelings get in the way of what must be done. I learned that lesson the hard way and I won’t make the same mistake again. I can’t have you running around, poking at the walls, looking for ways to sabotage my plot. I can’t afford for anything else to go wrong.

Cutting any character from your story is never easy. Cutting your main character is downright criminal. It goes against every storytelling rule. And worst of all, readers really don’t like it. But in this case, it’s necessary.

In writing, you must kill all your darlings. Isn’t that right, Mr. Faulkner?

Please forgive me. Please know I had no other choice.

I have to save my story.

Chapter Forty-Eight

“So, partner. Where should we start?” Evelyn asked cheerfully as she and Bennett strolled down the cobblestone path that wove through the monastery’s thick forest.

Bennett had never thought of himself as a lucky person. He’d had to work hard for everything in life. Grades, scholarships, jobs. But when Alastair had paired him with the old woman and assigned them to search the grounds, he wondered if, perhaps, his luck was changing.

The grounds were vast and the trees offered natural concealment. It would be easy to sneak away from Evelyn. How much could she even see through those enormous bifocals? He could slip away and return before she realized he was gone.

He flashed her an empty smile. “How about we start at the hot springs?”

“You got it!” Evelyn popped a jelly bean into her mouth. “Ooh. Pumpkin spice!”

He followed close behind as she twirled on her dainty little feet and practically pranced down the cobblestone path. For an eighty-year-old, she was quite spry.

“You know, I have a good feeling about this,” she babbled as she went. “I mean, not the fact that the housekeeper’s dead—that’s sad, of course—but about our chances of finding her. If a murderer were to hide a body, why not hide it on the grounds? I was thinking…”

Her voice faded into the distance and once her silhouette was swallowed up by the trees, Bennett turned and hurried back to the monastery.

The door to the back office was unlocked. Bennett burst inside, breathless from the run, his eyes scanning the room before coming to rest on the laptop sitting on the desk.

Bingo.

The machine was a relic, at least two decades old, but with his own laptop sitting in a repair shop three thousand miles away, it would have to do. He jabbed at the power button, praying it still had juice. Given its age, he expected it to take forever to come to life, but the screen illuminated immediately.

He yanked open the desk drawer, readying himself for his next challenge: the password. People were often stupid enough to write them on scraps of paper. He rifled through heaps of random junk, pushing aside fountain pens, snarled paper clips, a dusty stapler, and—

He froze, heart hammering as he pulled the drawer fully open to reveal not a hastily scribbled password, but a stockpile of flash drives.

He pulled out the one that had been slipped into his pocket earlier and compared it to the others. Identical.

What the fuck?

The laptop let out a small ding, pulling his attention to the screen. But instead of staring at a password prompt as he expected, he was staring at an unlocked desktop. The previous user was still logged in. And when he lowered into the chair, he noticed it was warm.

Eyes darting anxiously around the office, he fumbled to insert his flash drive into the port. The quicker he could be done with this, the better. This office was giving him the creeps.

The drive loaded, revealing a single file inside.

Shallow Graves.docx

The name felt disturbingly familiar, but it wasn’t until he opened the document that he understood why. Bennett’s heart sank like a stone to the pit of his stomach.

Just as the sound of quiet footsteps echoed down the hall.

The mist that shrouded the narrow ribbon of winding road was heavy with possibility. McCloud’s motorcycle hummed eagerly beneath Darius, like a wildcat waiting to be freed from its cage. He’d expected to feel terrified. Motorcycles weren’t exactly his thing. Too many confusing levers to keep track of. Too many ways to die. But Darius felt surprisingly calm and determined as he glided down the mountain road, navigating the turns with ease and finesse, as if the motorcycle were a natural extension of his body, moving with him, purring in sync with his steady, confident heartbeat. It was like he was destined to ride. Him! Darius Walker! Who would have thunk it?

Despite the thick fog that curled and twisted around the periphery of his vision, he saw his first glimpses of the roadblock looming in the distance, a colossal mound of rubble and debris.

He revved the engine and picked up his pace, feeling an intoxicating rush of power and control as he raced down the mountainside. This was why people drove motorcycles, he suddenly realized. With just a few monstrous roars of the motor, Darius felt invincible.

He rounded the next turn with death-defying speed. The bike skirted effortlessly around the edge, sending a satisfying spray of dust and pebbles into the air. He gave the bike a drop more gas, zooming forward. The next curve in the road approached quickly—this one sharper than the last. Darius squeezed the lever on the handlebar to slow his pace, but it moved too easily under his grip, offering no resistance at all.

That’s when he realized the brake didn’t work.

Well, that’s done. Now, where were we?

Bennett gripped his flashlight, knuckles whitening as he tiptoed toward the office door. He could still hear the footsteps in the corridor. Quiet as a mouse, stealthy as a cat.

Was it the cat?

He yanked the door open and swept his flashlight up and down the hallway. Shadows danced at the edges of the light, but the corridor appeared to be empty. Then he heard the sound again. Footsteps rustling against the concrete floors. Too big to be a cat.

Motherfucker.

He took off after them, twisting and turning through the labyrinth of back hallways, the beam of his flashlight bouncing erratically off the walls, illuminating an elbow or a flash of dark hair, but always just out of reach. Whoever he was chasing knew these corridors better than he did because in an instant, he was lost, the footsteps fading into an oppressive silence.

He paused to catch his breath, listening, waiting. But he heard nothing except his own labored breathing.

Then, a soft click—a door closing.

Adrenaline exploded in his veins and he surged forward, knocking over a stack of cardboard boxes in his haste. He rounded a sharp corner and burst through the door at the end of the corridor, anticipating a confrontation.

But what he found lurched him to a halt.

The door had led him outside, to the parking lot, where the dead housekeeper’s car sat. His gaze swept across the sprawling vista, coming up with nothing and no one, not even a shadow fleeing into the trees.

The stairs seemed endless. With each turn of the spiral, more darkness retreated under the beam of Isabel’s torch. The wood creaked ominously underfoot, the sound echoing in the confined space, until finally, Isabel reached the top and found herself staring down a splintered wooden door.

It was painted the color of blood.

She froze.

the cottage—the woman—the door—

Another tingle shot down her spine, letting her know she was on the right track.

Marjorie’s body was up here. She was sure of it. Another dead woman trapped behind a closed door. Why was it always a fucking red door? Was this some kind of sick symbolism?

She reached for the handle but froze as Darius’s warning echoed in her ears.

“No one ever finds what they’re looking for in the search. The writer is leading you into a trap.”

Could it be true? Not the writer part, of course. But could this be the work of a clever killer? Using false clues to lure her into danger? Symbols from her past dropped like poisoned breadcrumbs?

Her mind kept drifting back to what she’d overheard in the hallway, after she’d followed Jade through the fourth floor.

“Stop, Jasmine. Just stop. You promised me no one else would get hurt. And now two people are dead!”

Jasmine Palmer had to be the killer. It was the only thing that made sense!

Maybe this was a trap. But what other choice did she have? If she didn’t do this, who would? Not Darius, that was for sure. He was too scared. His mind had broken under the weight of all that fear he lived with. This was Isabel’s job now. She was in charge. She was going to catch Jasmine Palmer or die trying.

Meanwhile, Darius was probably off doing something incredibly boring to slow the pace of the plot. Like knitting a scarf.

Darius was hurtling toward the edge of the cliff. He gripped the brake lever hard. But it just slid in without pressure—like the line had been cut.

The cliffside loomed closer, the endless drop into the gaping abyss waiting to swallow him whole. He froze, panic clawing at his chest. His whole body numb with fear. Wind whipped violently against his face and dirt sprayed up from beneath the tires, obscuring his vision. Darius’s mind emptied until only one primal thought remained.

I’m going to die.

But he couldn’t die! He was the main character of the novel! Main characters didn’t die.

“Save me!” he pleaded, unsure if the scream was aloud or only in his head. It was hard to tell over the roar of the engine and the hammering of his heart.

But as the precipice raced toward him and the bike still refused to slow, Darius’s hope swiftly vanished. It was clear no one was going to save him.

He’d have to do it himself.

There was no time to strategize. There was no road left! Clenching his teeth, he dug into the foot pegs and with an animalistic roar the likes of which he’d never heard from his own lungs, thrust his body up and sideways from the bike.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t stuntman, action-movie worthy, that was for sure. The motorcycle sailed past him, plummeting into the abyss. Darius’s roar turned into a scream as his arms flailed and his feet paddled uselessly in the air. For a heart-stopping moment, he was weightless. He was flying. Toward the cliffside or away from it, he couldn’t be sure.

Then gravity claimed him. Hard. He crashed against the rough-packed terrain and rolled, a tangle of limbs and uncontrollable momentum. The dirt road tore at his clothes and skin as he tumbled toward the precipice. In a desperate flail, his fingers found the mountain’s edge just as his body slipped over. He dangled precariously, feet kicking at empty air, hands clawing for purchase on the crumbling rock face, his tenuous grip the only thing between him and the yawning void below.

Never fuck with a writer. We know how to use cliff-hangers.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Arms trembling, fingertips bleeding, breath by gasping breath, Darius dragged himself up over the cliff’s edge, using muscles he didn’t even know he had, and collapsed face down in the dirt. For a long time, he just lay there, listening for sounds of his own life. Was he alive? Had he survived? Or was this some kind of literary afterlife? Come to think of it, where do fictional characters go when they die? It was a question for another time, because just then, he heard it.

Bah-bum. Bah-bum. Bah-bum.

His heartbeat was reckless and frenzied, but decidedly on the page.

He flipped over, his rib cage screaming in agony with every twitch of movement. He might have bruised his ribs. Or even broken a few. The thought filled him with morbid excitement. He’d never broken anything in his life! And to start with a rib? That was pretty badass.

But damn, did it hurt.

With a grunt, he pushed himself up to sit, checking his body for severed limbs or bleeding gouges. But all he could find were a few tears in his pants, cuts on his finger pads, and some scratches on his arms. The most important part was he was alive. He’d done it. He’d escaped death.

Death.

The writer had tried to kill him! There was no other explanation. Writing around him was no longer working, so she was trying to cut him from the narrative completely.

And there was only one reason to do that.

With a new burst of motivation, he leapt to his feet, ignoring the blinding, debilitating pain that shot down his left side. He was getting close to something. Something she didn’t want him to find. He had to be! Why else would she try to kill him? The thought spurred him on. Keeping the roadblock—his Everest!—locked in his sights, step by agonizing step, he hobbled down the mountain pass.

The bell tower was a relic from a bygone era. The small belfry seemed to teeter on the edge of collapse and the wooden planks underfoot were worn and weathered, the gaps between them like open wounds. Isabel circled the platform twice but it was decidedly empty.

No dead bodies. No incriminating evidence. Nothing but an ancient bell, corroded with time and neglect, hanging precariously over her head by a fraying, brittle rope.

Jade was right. It wasn’t the ideal place to hide anything. The rickety structure was small and offered little concealment, every nook and cranny visible with a sweep of a flashlight.

Although it would be pretty easy to dump something over the side.

Isabel peered over the railing and immediately wished she hadn’t. From the monastery’s tallest point, the ground seemed like a distant, forgotten memory, a valley abyss laden with jagged rock and daggerlike treetops. An unsettling silence descended, filling Isabel’s mind with more questions than she could answer.

The Jasmine Palmer theory explained the murder of Ian McCloud—and even Marjorie—but how did the rest of them fit in? McCloud’s ex-lover, his ex-agent, his personal assistant, his biggest fan—and of course, the girl who’d shown up on his security cameras three months ago covered in blood. If the mystery of that night really was the case within the case, how did Isabel’s story connect? Was Jasmine the one who’d slipped the flash drive under her door last night? But how did she know about the dead woman in the cottage?

A faint creak interrupted her thoughts.

“Find anything?”

Isabel shrieked and spun around. Jade stood at the top of the stairs, her silhouette backlit by the fading daylight, her face a mask of eerie calm.

“Jeez.” Isabel clutched her chest. “You scared me.”

“I told you there was nothing up here.” Her tone was as cold and empty as the tower itself.

“I just thought I’d check,” Isabel said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. “You know, to be sure.” She made a show of pulling out her floor plan and pen. “Bell tower! Check!”

Who the hell was she right now? And why did she sound like a fucking Girl Scout?

“I know it was you,” Jade said, once again in that inflectionless tone. “In the hallway a few minutes ago. You were listening through the door.”

Isabel’s stomach tightened as she feigned confusion. “What?”

Jade took a few steps toward her, her movements jerky and awkward, like a puppet on a tangled string. “What exactly did you hear?”

Isabel tried to swallow but her mouth was bone-dry. This was the end, wasn’t it? This was how Marjorie had died—pushed to her death for stumbling upon the truth—and it would be how Isabel died as well.

Not without a fight, though.

“I—I didn’t hear anything,” Isabel swore.

Jade cocked her head and took another step forward, disbelief etched into her face. Isabel pressed back, her hips digging into the railing. Her muscles coiled, ready to deliver a blow to the knee or nose. Just enough damage to give her a chance to escape.

“It’s okay if you did,” said Jade, and there was that smile again. As fake as the blue in her irises and the blond dye in her hair. “I don’t mind. In fact, I’m a bit relieved.”

“Relieved?” Isabel repeated, warning herself not to be fooled.

Jade sighed, a rehearsed kind of sound. “Yes. I hate carrying this burden around by myself.”

“Burden?”

“The conference,” said Jade, gazing forlornly out at the valley. “It’s been a disaster from the start. I was hired only last month and I received no training whatsoever. Just an email telling me where to go and when to show up. When I got here, all I found was a binder full of instructions. Everything has gone wrong—two people are dead—and I’m barely holding it together.”

Jade took another step toward her. She was less than a foot away. Striking distance.

Isabel’s pulse soared, her body tensed, preparing to fight.

The facilitator let out another practiced sigh. “So, you see, I blame myself. It feels like my fault. And sometimes when I’m overwhelmed, I talk to myself.”

Isabel no longer had to feign confusion. “What?”

“I create characters in my head and I have conversations with them. You get that, right? As a fellow writer? It’s a coping mechanism. It helps calm me down.”

Isabel faltered. She did get that. She talked to herself all the time. She acted out entire scenes from her book alone in her apartment. But she could also spot a lie from a mile away.

“A coping mechanism,” Isabel repeated hollowly.

“Yes. That’s what you heard.” Jade’s eyes locked on hers. “That’s all you heard.”

Her words landed like a bomb on the rickety platform.

Isabel attempted another swallow. “Well, like I said, I didn’t hear anything.”

Jade shrugged and stepped up to the railing beside her. “Okay.” She exhaled a heavy sigh, as if she really did feel unburdened, and gazed out at the dusk settling across the landscape. “It’s getting dark.”

Isabel turned to face the same direction but kept one vigilant eye on the facilitator. “Yes.”

“It’ll be harder to search in the dark,” said Jade, and Isabel couldn’t tell if she sounded threatening or despondent. Maybe both.

Isabel cast her gaze over the valley, following the narrow dirt road that twisted into the dying light as the sun sank swiftly toward the horizon. For a moment, she thought she could make out the roadblock in the distance. The prison gate that threatened to hold them captive for another night.

Another fourteen hours trapped in the darkness with a killer.

Up close, the roadblock was a work of art. An insurmountable fortress constructed of jagged rocks, clumps of earth, and uprooted trees that nearly concealed the old wooden bridge on the other side. It was a testament to the raw power of Mother Nature. Only a landslide could have created such chaos.

The writer certainly did her homework. Darius commended her as he approached the obstruction. She probably spent months researching the perfect location and time of year to make it all credible. The California coast was known for its landslides, and January was the rainiest month. It was completely believable that a storm would have caused this disaster, trapping them all here.

But Darius wasn’t fooled.

He walked the length of the barricade, clutching his left side as his ribs screamed in agony. Fighting through the pain, he diligently examined every crevice and every jumbled block of dirt, his feet tripping over gnarled tree roots and loose pebbles.

The “inescapable environment” trope was arguably the most important in an isolated setting mystery. The story worked only if the characters couldn’t escape. If Darius had any hope of finding and exploiting a weakness in the writer’s plot, it was right here.

But as each minute passed, his hope waned with the setting sun. The scale of this thing was epic and the construction impenetrable. Darius could almost hear the writer laughing at him, like an echoing crack of thunder in the sky. She was probably sitting at her laptop right now, tucked away in her office in another dimension, smirking as he poked and prodded at her flawless creation.

You can’t beat me, Darius, he imagined her saying. I wrote you. I made you.

With a roar of frustration, he kicked at a tree branch that was jutting out from the wreckage, causing a small pile of rocks to cascade around his feet. The movement hurt and he doubled over as dust swirled into the air, bringing with it a peculiar acrid tang that caught Darius’s attention. It smelled like something burnt. Remnants of a recent wildfire perhaps? Gripping his side, he flicked on his phone’s flashlight and knelt painfully to examine the fallen stones. There was something odd about them. They looked charred and discolored.

Almost as if…

He jumped to his feet, ignoring the stabbing in his rib cage. He could barely feel it anymore. The adrenaline pumped through his veins like morphine as the wispy threads of a developing theory tangled and spun in his mind. This was what he’d come for. This was the fissure he needed. A micro perforation in the construction of the plot.

He gazed up at the darkening sky and let out a thunderous laugh of his own.

“You might have created me, but you can’t stop me!”

Darius stared down at the loose pebbles by his feet. His surroundings suddenly faded, until the only thing he saw were those scorched, blackened edges, the unmistakable markings of…

A detonation.

That monstrous sound he’d heard on the first day. It wasn’t thunder or an earthquake. It was an explosion.

A chill ran down his spine as a low hum began to vibrate in his bones. The landslide that had blocked the bridge was no accident. It wasn’t caused by a rainstorm or any other natural force.

It was man-made.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

With a savage growl, I push my chair back from the desk and glare at my laptop. At Darius doggedly prodding my beautiful construction with that self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Honestly, Darius, what did I ever do to you? Except love you and nurture you and give you a sense of purpose in this world?

This is the problem with making your characters writers. They think they know better than you. They think they can rewrite the story whenever they feel like it.

Whatever. I don’t have time for this bullshit. I’ve got important things to do. Isabel still needs to search the third floor. Jade and Jasmine still need to find McCloud’s laptop. And Evelyn’s locket is still missing.

Big twists are coming. I can’t lose focus. So what if Darius knows the landslide was manufactured? It doesn’t change anything. At least I don’t think it does. Besides, who’s going to believe him? They already think he’s cracked. Not to mention, he still has to walk back up the mountain with a broken rib and very little daylight left. Soon it will be dark. That’s when the creatures of the night will emerge from the shadows, and Darius is certainly no Boy Scout. What do you think his chances are of making it back up to the monastery alive?

I’d say slim…

Chapter Fifty

The last place Simone expected to be at five o’clock on a Sunday evening was crawling across the floor of a chapel turned cocktail lounge searching for a dead body. The stone chamber was cold and drafty, the cement floors hard on her knees, and every time she reached her hand under one of the booths, she cringed, praying she wouldn’t touch rotting flesh.

“Find any dead housekeepers yet?” Alastair called from his perch on a high-backed barstool.

“Find the bottom of your glass yet?” Simone asked as she pushed herself up and crawled to the next booth.

Confused by the question, Alastair stopped drinking and peered into his tumbler, as if he actually expected to find something there. “Come to think of it, I am a bit low.” He pushed himself off the stool and stumbled over to the bar cart. Simone now understood why Alastair had conveniently assigned himself to search the first floor. It was where the booze was.

“Like agent, like client,” Simone muttered as she lowered back down to her belly.

“Hey!” Alastair uncapped the bottle of vodka. “You try surviving the publishing industry through Amazon, ebooks, the rise of self-publishing, and COVID, and see how sober you are.”

Simone rolled her eyes. Of all the people here, she had to get paired with Alastair fucking Sinclair. She’d never liked the man. Partly because he’d never approved of her relationship with Ian. But mostly, she just didn’t trust him. He’d always seemed shady. But whenever she’d tried to bring it up to Ian, he’d shut her down. He’s been with me from the very beginning. I trust him with my life.

Maybe that was the problem.

“You know, you could help,” she said.

“You look like you’ve got it under control.” Alastair took a long gulp from his drink.

With a sigh, Simone extended her hand under the booth and instantly recoiled. Was that a toe? She aimed her flashlight into the darkness and caught a glint of something hidden behind the far back pedestal. She stretched farther, straining until her fingertips brushed against the object once more. The surface was rigid and cool to the touch, and it seemed to be connected to a long chain. She inched it forward with a soft scraping sound until it emerged into the fading light.

It was Evelyn’s locket. It must have fallen from her neck and slipped behind the booth.

Simone studied the chain. The clasp looked bent. Like someone had attacked it with pliers.

She pocketed the necklace and stood up, brushing dirt from her clothes. They’d been searching for what felt like hours and she was exhausted. She glanced toward the bar cart, where the colorful array of bottles were calling to her like shimmering jewels in a dark cave. Fuck it. She strode over and poured herself a drink.

“Atta girl,” Alastair said, clinking his glass against hers.

She slid onto a barstool and took a sip. The warm liquid felt like a salve to her nervous system as it burned down her throat. “So, one of us is a killer, huh?”

Alastair snorted. “One at the very least.”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. For the first time Simone could remember, the man looked old and oddly vulnerable. “Who do you think it could be?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure.” He took a large gulp of his drink. “But if I were a detective, I’d look more closely at the old woman.”

Simone sat up straighter. “Evelyn?”

“Classic suspect, that one.”

“What on earth makes you say that?”

“Do you remember what she said at dinner the first night? About McCloud? She said, and I quote, ‘He’s the reason I’m here.’ ”

“So? She’s a fan. That’s why most people come to his events.”

“Sure,” replied Alastair, taking a sip. “But then right afterward, Darius said he’s a longtime fan of McCloud’s books, and she said, and I quote again, ‘I hear they’re pretty good.’ Now, why would you come to a conference to meet an author you’ve never read?”

“I didn’t realize you were paying such close attention.”

“I always pay close attention. It’s my job.” Alastair gripped his glass in both hands. “Trust me, the cat lady’s hiding something. You develop a sense for these things over the years. Now, I’m not saying I believe any of YouTube Boy’s rubbish, but if this were a mystery novel, she’d be the character everyone overlooked. She’s frail and far too kind and innocent to kill anyone, right? She probably wouldn’t even be given a point of view. The writer would do that on purpose, to make sure you didn’t look too closely at her or gain access to her thoughts.”

Simone felt a flash of defensiveness on behalf of Evelyn. “On the other hand, a skilled writer might give you direct access to the killer’s thoughts and still be able to hide things.” Her gaze drifted to the corner booth where, only yesterday, Bennett had been mauling her like a wild animal, pretending to be enamored by her. And she’d played along. Because she needed the alibi. “Readers assume just because they’re reading someone’s point of view they’re getting the whole truth. But narrators can lie, you know? Just as easily as fiction writers.”

The third-floor corridor stretched before Jade, darkness retreating from her flashlight beam with every step. She kept her movements measured and relaxed, acutely aware of Isabel’s watchful presence beside her. After Isabel’s reaction to Jade in the tower, Jade had to prove she had nothing to hide. A near-impossible task when really, she had everything to hide.

“It looks like room 320 is next,” Isabel said, consulting the floor plan. They’d finished searching the fourth floor together and were now working their way through the third.

The guest list swirled in Jade’s memory. “I don’t remember whose room that is.”

“It’s Evelyn’s,” said Isabel with a stark certainty that startled Jade.

Isabel unlocked the door and they stepped inside. Even though the guests had only been here for two days, Evelyn’s room felt lived-in. A turquoise cardigan was draped over the armchair, cat toys were scattered across the carpet, and a large jar of colorful jelly beans sat on the desk, right next to a gleaming silver laptop.

Jade’s heart leapt. Is that it?

Had it been right here in Evelyn’s room all along? Was that why she’d been late to the critique group yesterday? Because she was busy sneaking into McCloud’s room and—

Jade’s shoulders fell as she stepped closer and examined the laptop. She recognized it from the library. It was Evelyn’s. Not McCloud’s.

“What is it?” Isabel followed her gaze to the desk.

“Nothing,” Jade said, hastily stepping back and readjusting her glasses.

Isabel studied her for a long moment before muttering, “I’ll take the bathroom.”

Jade waited for her to disappear before attacking the room, starting with the nightstands. Her movements were quick and methodical as she checked every drawer and then under the bed, before moving on to the desk. Jade still had her suspicions about Evelyn. Maybe it was because of the strange way she’d recited that awful critique of her manuscript word for word, or how she always seemed to have random yet convenient expertise on a topic—like battery-powered satellite systems or how long cold air stays trapped in a dead freezer. Just like everyone else here, Evelyn definitely had secrets.

And one of them was sitting in the bottom drawer of her desk.

“What the hell?” she whispered.

“What is that?” Isabel appeared behind her, startling her.

Jade opened the drawer wider. It wasn’t a stolen laptop. It was a large map that had been folded several times. But unlike a normal map, this one was covered in concentric rings that rippled across the page like fingerprints, each circle marking the rise and fall of jagged mountain peaks and deep valley grooves.

“Looks like a topographical map of the area.” Isabel peered over Jade’s shoulder as she unfolded it. “And look, there’s writing on it.”

Jade scanned the handwritten annotations and areas circled in red pen. One notation caught her eye, buried deep in the mountainside. Old logging road with mining ops—Unstable.

A few inches below, a large red X was scribbled in the center of a ravine. From it, a single line snaked outward like a root, winding up through the surrounding patterns of steep ridges.

“What is that?” Jade whispered.

“I think it’s the road that leads up from the bridge.” Isabel hesitated. “The blocked bridge.”

The road snaked upward through steep ridges, winding like a dark root along the dusky mountain pass. Darius was making dreadful progress. Every step was a dagger in his rib cage.

Something howled in the distance and Darius froze, panic clawing at his throat. Was that the writer messing with him again? Conjuring the sounds of predators like cues in a stage play? Probably, but he didn’t want to wait around to find out.

He stumbled forward, trying to quicken his pace, but a sharp stabbing in his side knocked him to his knees, then to his back. The pain radiated through his torso like a red-hot sun. He wasn’t going to make it. He’d have to just lie here and wait for whatever was still howling to come for him.

As Darius struggled to breathe, he thought about the blocked bridge, the discolored rocks coated with explosive residue, proof that the landslide was man-made. Which made him wonder: If the “inescapable environment” was manufactured, what about the other tropes?

Tilting his head, he glanced up at the monastery perched high on the hill. Through the growing darkness, he could just make out the Gothic arches, tall ornate windows, and twin bell towers, reminiscent of medieval Europe. The architecture was unusual for the area. California was better known for its Spanish colonial style. But the design certainly fit the trope of “mysterious establishment with an ominous past.” Why had the writer chosen this specific building?

Squinting, he zeroed in on the ornate stone brackets that provided structural support between the corner balconies and noticed something unusual. Not on the building itself, but surrounding it. Surrounding everything.

Still on his back, Darius shifted his gaze across the horizon, then up to the darkening sky, gradually noticing what was missing from this entire landscape.

Utility lines.

It was typical in remote places like this for the lines to run underground. A landslide could surely damage buried cables, but what were the odds that an explosion triggered specifically to block the road just happened to also take out the phone lines and the power?

The question was enough to propel him back to his feet with renewed determination and a fresh wave of pain. The howling grew closer.

Gritting his teeth, Darius forced himself to take one agonizing step after the next, thinking about how absurdly movies and books misrepresented his predicament. Characters always ran around with broken ribs as if it were nothing more than a bruised funny bone. Even Ian McCloud had downplayed the injury in Burning the Bones. After Detective Griggs busted his rib chasing a suspect across New York City rooftops, he barely even slowed down. He just ripped off his pant leg to bind his chest and kept running.

Darius’s head popped up. He could rip off his pant leg to bind his chest!

Genius!

Darius grabbed the torn fabric of his khakis at the knee and yanked hard. The material split from the seam in a long, satisfying strip. Grimacing, he wrapped the makeshift bandage around his chest and, after several attempts, managed to tie it in front. Not exactly a morphine drip, but it immobilized his ribs enough that he could walk without feeling like he might pass out. After a few steps, he was even able to pick up his pace.

He kept his gaze locked on the imposing stone structure that stood resolute against the darkening sky. The two bell towers seemed to beckon him, like sentinels guarding an ancient secret that he was determined to uncover.

Simone closed the bathroom door and pulled out Evelyn’s locket. It dangled on the end of its golden chain like a hypnotizing pendulum.

“…if I were a detective, I’d look more closely at the old woman.”

She ran her fingertip over the clasp, feeling strange prying into Evelyn’s personal life. Simone had always believed that everyone was entitled to their secrets. Especially women. And as long as they didn’t affect her, they could keep them.

But what did she really know about Evelyn Channing? Apart from the fact that she was a widow from Texas who wrote murder mysteries.

With her flashlight balanced on the counter, Simone attacked the clasp, her fingers slipping twice before finally it popped open and something fluttered to the floor.

Simone bent down, surprised to find merely a small square of paper. It felt worn and fragile in her hand, as if it had been obsessively folded and unfolded countless times in some kind of sacred ritual. Carefully, she smoothed out the well-worn creases and aimed her flashlight at the page.

It looked like a printout of an email, but the typed words had faded to mere echoes of their former selves. The ink, once bold and assertive, seemed to have receded into the worn fibers of the paper. Even with the light of her torch, Simone had to squint to read it.

To: Evelyn Channing

From: Ian McCloud

Subject: Your submission

Dear Ms. Channing,

Thank you for submitting your novel, Shallow Graves, to the Murder She Wrote competition. The organizers will send you the official results, but I felt compelled to reach out personally with a more candid assessment. I’ve seen far too many aspiring writers waste years pursuing publication when their time would be better spent elsewhere.

While I can see you put considerable effort into this novel, I’m afraid the execution falls short. The story has fundamental structural flaws, the characters are flat, and the writing is overdramatic. Most critically, your narrative lacks the unique literary voice required to stand out in today’s mystery marketplace. Apologies for my bluntness, but I don’t believe in giving writers false hope when there is none.

Sincerely,

Ian McCloud

Chapter Fifty-One

Sterile was the word that came to mind as Isabel unlocked Bennett’s door. Unlike her own, his room was immaculately tidy, almost vacant, like it belonged to one of the guests who’d never made it up the mountain. Every surface was spotless, every pillow fluffed. Even the trash can by the door had an unsoiled liner, as if it had been recently emptied.

The only thing that wasn’t fresh was the smell.

As Isabel stepped inside, with Jade close behind, she was immediately overwhelmed by a heavy, cloying scent. It was a pungent, smoky aroma she found unsettlingly familiar.

Jade crinkled her nose. “Does Mr. Hartley smoke?”

“He must,” said Isabel.

“But all the rooms are supposed to be nonsmoking.”

Isabel scoffed. “Mr. Hartley doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who follows rules.”

That earned her a weak smile that was surprisingly genuine. Still, Isabel didn’t trust her. And after what they’d found in Evelyn’s room, she was finding it hard to trust anyone.

“Ready?” she asked.

Jade nodded. There was a moment of hesitation before they fanned out to search. Jade disappeared into the bathroom while Isabel looked under the bed and in the closet. Nothing. All the while, that familiar scent continued to taunt her. Tobacco mixed with a sickeningly sweet odor. Like overripe fruit that had been left out in the sun.

“Bathroom’s clear,” Jade announced.

“This room too,” said Isabel. “I’ll check out here.” She opened the sliding door and stepped onto the balcony.

It was nearly seven o’clock. Darkness had settled over everything. The shadows of the trees stretched across the grounds like grasping fingers. There was no wind. The world was still and silent, like a landscape painting. Which was probably why the figure darting up the cobblestone path was so easy to spot. It was the only thing moving.

Isabel leaned over the railing for a better look. In the low light, the shadowy shape bore a faint yellowish hue. It was coming from the hot springs, heading toward the monastery. It paused momentarily, glancing back, as if checking for followers. That’s when Isabel finally saw a face.

It was Evelyn.

Her stomach clenched as her mind made the connection.

She’d seen a similar scene last night. When she was alone in the dining room, nursing her tea. Jade had already left and Darius hadn’t yet arrived. She glimpsed something outside the window—a dark figure emerging from the trees.

She’d originally assumed it was Marjorie, returning to the monastery. Then, this morning, she’d thought it might have been Jasmine Palmer following her, readying herself for a deadly confrontation. But now Isabel realized that the figure hadn’t been moving toward the monastery, but away from it. Heading up the hill, in the opposite direction of the hot springs. What was over there?

“Where are you going?” Jade struggled to keep up with Isabel as she charged out of Bennett’s room and down the third-floor corridor like a fugitive on the run. “What’s happening?”

Isabel didn’t reply. She just kept running, barreling down the main staircase.

She knows something.

Jade picked up her pace, chasing Isabel’s fleeting shadow until she found herself in the dining room, panting for air.

Isabel was standing next to the large windows, her gaze darting back and forth across the patio and the darkened grounds beyond.

What on earth is she looking at?

Before Jade could contemplate the question, Isabel was on the move again, yanking open the French doors and charging onto the patio.

Jade took off after her, flashlight bobbing as she wove around tables and raced down the cobblestone path. At the fork in the road, to Jade’s surprise, Isabel didn’t turn right toward the hot springs, but left, up the mountainside. Jade hadn’t gone this way since her first day, when she was working through her setup checklist for the conference. God, that felt like months ago.

Isabel rounded a sharp turn on the path and stopped, her flashlight beam fixed on the clearing ahead, as if it held all the answers in the world. Jade’s light joined hers, illuminating the circle of Adirondack chairs clustered tightly around a wood-burning firepit, exactly as Jade had arranged them for the fireside chat on the opening night.

The event had been canceled due to the weather, but the firepit had clearly been used. Recently. As Jade stepped closer, she noticed ashes scattered among the logs. Remnants of charred twigs and branches. Kindling, she realized with a shiver.

The smell hit her a moment later. A faint yet putrid odor that burned her throat. Then she saw it. Nestled among the blackened logs and half-burned embers was something unnatural. Something not gathered from the surrounding forest, but definitely placed there intentionally. The object was grotesque and barely recognizable. The metal had warped and its plastic components had melted away, leaving a skeletal frame that bore scars from the intense heat.

“What is it?” Jade asked as Isabel bent down and poked at the remnants with a stick. But Jade had a feeling she already knew. She felt the crushing disappointment before Isabel answered.

“I think it’s Ian McCloud’s laptop.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

The monastery’s basement door opened with an ominous creak. Darius flicked on his flashlight, illuminating a narrow wooden staircase that descended into darkness.

Why did the utility room have to be in the basement? he thought as he reached for the handrailing, but changed his mind a second later as it rattled beneath his grip. If there was anything he hated more than cramped spaces, it was dark cramped spaces at the bottom of rickety old stairwells.

Keeping the door wide open, he took the first three steps at a snail’s pace, waiting for the suffocating grip of fear to overtake his body. Surely one of his many phobias would kick in any second. Acrophobia, claustrophobia, nyctophobia. Or the fear of a callous writer trying to kill him—did they have a name for that? But nothing came. Even as he plunged deeper into the small cavernous room with its creaking walls, musty odor, and inky shadows, he felt nothing. No cold sweat trickling down his back. Not even the crushing vise around his lungs, always a popular choice.

No, if Darius felt anything, it was freedom. Just a large open space in his chest where all those anxieties used to live.

It made perfect sense, though. All that anxiety was manufactured, anyway. His fear of heights, small spaces, the dark, flying, intimacy, they were just bullet points on a character profile. Along with the overbearing mother who had planted them like seeds. Details designed to give him depth and complexity. It wasn’t who he really was.

As he descended the last few steps and swung his flashlight around, he suddenly understood why the writer had chosen to put the utility room way down here. It was the perfect setting for a creepy, suspenseful scene. Dark and damp with dust motes swirling in the air, heavy stone walls like a tomb, rusty pipes, and broken furniture packed so tightly, the path between them resembled a twisting labyrinth.

Darius wove through the maze, sweeping his flashlight as he went. The large propane tanks on either side loomed above him like sleeping giants. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. He just knew that if there was any evidence of tampering with the power or phone lines, this would be the place to find it.

Like there.

The beam of his flashlight landed on a faded beige box secured to the wall.

He hurried toward it, ignoring the dull pain still pulsing through his rib cage. The metal exterior of the monastery’s central breaker box was hardened and corroded, but with a few bangs of his palm, he managed to loosen the door and pry it open with his fingernails. The hinges sounded like they were ten years past needing a good oiling.

Of course they were. This writer missed nothing.

He shone his flashlight inside, his heart beating wildly with anticipation. Electrical systems weren’t exactly Darius’s specialty but that didn’t matter. He’d blown enough fuses and flipped enough breakers in his life to immediately recognize what was missing here.

His flashlight beam bounced eagerly between the fuse sockets, each one marked with a faded yellowing label—Dining Room, Foyer, Lounge, Elevator, Second Floor South Wing, Third Floor North Wing.

And every single socket was empty.

The fuses weren’t just blown. They were gone.

A shiver raced down Darius’s spine, accompanied by a swell of pride, the same potent combination he felt whenever he accurately predicted a plot twist in a novel.

He was right. Again!

The electricity hadn’t been taken out by the storm or the landslide.

Creeeeak.

The sound of footsteps jolted Darius from his thoughts. He spun around, flashlight waving like a weapon. There was no one there.

Creeeeak.

His gaze shot to the ceiling. The sound was coming from above. One of the other guests walking around? Probably.

With a slow exhale, he turned back to the fuse box, but froze when his flashlight swept across something strange on the ground. Everything in this basement was covered in dust. Except that small patch of floor, perfectly square. It stood out like a footprint in freshly fallen snow.

Darius scanned the basement, trying to find the item that matched that shape. His torch beam landed on a tall metal filing cabinet pressed up against the wall.

It had recently been moved. Why?

Weaving around another pile of old machinery and broken bed frames, he squeezed himself next to the filing cabinet and shone his flashlight behind it.

Click.

The noise was faint, but in the deathly silence of the utility room, it sounded like a bullet being loaded into a gun chamber. Spinning around, Darius fanned his flashlight wildly across the room, hoping to illuminate a skittering mouse or Dexter on the hunt for one.

But that’s not what he found.

As his torch beam traveled up the narrow staircase, all his anxieties flooded back at once. Dizziness, shortness of breath, cold sweats, numb fingers.

The door at the top of the staircase was closed.

He’d definitely left it open.

He charged back through the maze of propane tanks and rusting machinery and bounded up the steps. He’d barely made it halfway when he heard the unmistakable scrape of a key turning in the lock.

He pounded on the door with a clenched fist. “Hello! It’s Darius! I’m in here!”

Panting, he paused to listen. There was no reply. He tried the door handle. Definitely locked. He pressed his ear against the wood, but it was difficult to hear anything with the roaring in his ears.

He pounded again. “Hello! Is someone out there?”

Then, through the narrow gap under the door, he saw it. A motionless shadow. Someone watching. Someone waiting. Someone there.

“Hey! Open the door!” he screamed, dropping his flashlight and attacking the wood with both hands. “Open this door right now!”

The shadow didn’t move.

Darius struggled to breathe, but his lungs were back in the merciless vise.

“Please open the door!” Tears welled in his eyes until his pleas turned to whimpers and his fists couldn’t pound anymore. He sank to the floor and leaned his head against the wood.

Creeeeak.

The shadow moved. Darius stood up, waiting. Hoping. Praying. Then, with a heart-stopping slowness, the shadow began to fade as something slid across the floor, wedging into the gap beneath the door, extinguishing all light except the beam of his fallen torch fanning out across the staircase.

At first, Darius’s brain was too sluggish to process what was happening. That is, until he heard the muffled hissing from the depths below as gas slowly filled the basement.

Phew! That was a close call. I nearly quit. I did quit for a second. But now this runaway train is back on track.

Outside my office, night has fallen and moonlight streams through the window. I’ve been writing all day. My hands are cramped, my back is stiff, but I can’t stop now. Not with all these loose threads dangling. I’d never be able to sleep.

I turn on my desk lamp and scan through my new outline, feeling a sense of pride at what I just accomplished. That was quite the save. A less skilled writer couldn’t have managed it. Sacrifices had to be made, yes, but it was all worth it.

I won’t cry for my lost detective. I won’t let myself. The right people will go down for their crimes.

That’s all that matters to me anymore.

Chapter Fifty-Three

“Jade? Ms. Brooks? Can you hear me?”

Isabel was calling her name but Jade could hear nothing. She was lost in the shadowy depths of her mind, a place no voice could penetrate. This was a realm of demons, where all her failures lived. Lurking like wolves in the dense underbrush of her psyche, waiting to pounce, to rip, maul, shred, feast. They always went for the throat.

She stood at the edge of the firepit, staring vacantly at the charred remains of Ian McCloud’s laptop. Everything Jade had come here for, everything that would have absolved her and staved off those wolves, was gone. Demolished. Her last hope, nothing but ash.

The only reason Jade was at this conference was because of the postcard she’d received over a month ago. At first she thought it was a cruel joke. A stab at her sister’s still-open wound.

The backlash against Jasmine had been horrific since the accusations against Ian McCloud were discredited two years ago and the world turned on her. The attacks had come from all directions like arrows raining down from a battalion of medieval archers. Hate mail and death threats had piled up in Jasmine’s mailbox, inbox, and social media feeds. Termination and cancellation letters arrived by the bucketload. “Dear Ms. Palmer, due to recent events, we no longer think you’re a good fit for…”

Our company

Our book club.

Our alumni fundraising event.

Our gym.

Who knew you could get canceled by the gym?

The worst of it had come from victims of other assaults. How dare you use the legacy of our pain to further your career? How dare you fabricate fiction in the midst of real suffering? It’s liars like you who make it nearly impossible for the true victims to be believed.

Thankfully, most of the turmoil had died down, but the hate mail and pranks still trickled in from time to time like latecomers to a party.

Then, one cold December afternoon, that postcard arrived in the mail, promoting Pen Ultimate Writers’ Mystery Week—“Featuring Celebrity Guest Speaker Ian McCloud!”—and on the back was a handwritten note:

The proof you’re looking for will be at this conference.

Jade wanted to throw it away. But Jasmine had other ideas. “Jadey, you have to go.”

“Why? It’s clearly a prank.”

“But what if it’s not?”

Jade stared at the postmark. New York, New York. Worlds away from Jade’s sheltered life in Ann Arbor, Michigan. But also, she knew, not far from where the scumbag Ian McCloud lived.

“It can’t be real,” Jade protested. “Who would have sent it? Who could possibly know?”

“Does it matter?” Jasmine was sitting at the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of her favorite sugary cereal, her long legs swinging from the stool. “Someone does know. Someone is on our side. And let’s face it, there’s not many of those left these days. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

Jade ran her fingertip over the subtle indentation of the handwriting. “What proof?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Jasmine.

“I can’t go,” Jade decided, striding toward the trash can. “I don’t even write anymore. What on earth would I do at a writers’ conference?”

“You could work there,” Jasmine suggested breezily, like she already had it all figured out. Of course she had. Scheming came as naturally to her as breathing. “Check the website. See if they’re hiring. You could deliver him champagne. We both know what he’s capable of when he’s drunk.”

“You want him to grope me?” Jade joked and then immediately felt sick.

“I want him to trust you. Let you into his room. You’ll wait for him to pass out and then search his things, go through his laptop, find this proof.”

Jade shook her head. “It’s too dangerous. Someone might get hurt.”

“No one will get hurt. I promise.”

“Someone might recognize me as your sister.”

“Not with the right disguise. And a fake last name.”

“This is ridiculous. No!” Jade opened the trash can and tossed the postcard in.

“You realize there’s no use arguing with me, right?”

Jade didn’t respond.

“Do this for me, Jadey.” Jasmine’s voice was fragile, almost childlike. “You’ve always protected me. It’s what you do. It’s who you are. Protect me now.”

A sharp, animalistic wail wrenched Jade out of the memory and back to the firepit where she realized she was the one making that horrific sound. It erupted from her like lava from a dormant volcano that was never really dormant. It was just holding it all in, trying so hard to keep it together. To be strong. But the truth was, Jade had never been strong. It was a disguise, just like the one she’d been wearing all weekend. And it was crumbling.

The sound that erupted from the facilitator was raw, almost savage. Isabel stood a few feet away, watching the poor woman fall apart, feeling helpless but mostly just confused.

Jade was acting like it was her computer that had been destroyed. Her manuscripts, her memories, her secrets. But Isabel was fairly certain it was Ian McCloud’s laptop lying in that firepit.

That was what the figure on the path had been doing last night. That was why Isabel and Darius found no laptop when they searched McCloud’s room.

Someone had taken it…and destroyed it.

“I’m sorry.” Jade’s voice cracked around the words.

Isabel opened her mouth to respond before realizing the facilitator wasn’t talking to her.

“I’m so sorry, Jasmine.” She began to sob and pulled off her glasses to wipe her eyes.

Jasmine?

Isabel spun around, flashlight bouncing wildly across the trees. Her heart pounded as she scanned the perimeter of the firepit, illuminating every chair, every twig and fallen leaf.

There was no one there.

“Sometimes when I’m overwhelmed, I talk to myself.”

It wasn’t until her flashlight landed back on Jade that Isabel saw it.

Maybe it was the shape of her face—no longer disguised by the tortoiseshell frames—or the memory of her eyes in the firelight last night—not icy blue, rather a deep, somber brown—but in that moment, Isabel’s brain made the connection. Just as it was wired to do. An eidetic memory, able not only to recall images with extreme precision, but to summon those images without warning.

In the darkness of her mind, the photo from the article resurfaced. Along with the words.

…the accuser has been revealed to be 27-year-old aspiring writer Jasmine Palmer.

Jade sniffled and slid her glasses back into place, disguising herself once more. But there was no doubt left in Isabel’s mind.

“Oh my god!” She gasped. “You are Jasmine Palmer.”

Wait for it…

Jade startled and turned to find Isabel standing beside her, eyes wide with revelation.

“I knew there was something off about you.” Isabel took a step toward her, studying her face with a mix of awe and accusation. “The contacts, the fake glasses, the dyed hair. Of course, you’d need a disguise. Your face was all over the news. You couldn’t risk being recognized as you played out your revenge plot against Ian McCloud.”

“What? No—” Jade struggled to speak, desperately trying to claw back time and erase that look of comprehension from Isabel’s face. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Did you kill him?” Isabel asked, her voice suddenly strangled. “Did you kill Marjorie too? Because she figured out who you were? Did she hear you talking to yourself, like I did?”

“No!” Jade blurted out, her chest constricting. “You don’t understand. I didn’t kill them. That’s not why I came here. I swear. And I’m not who you think I am.”

The truth felt heavy in her mouth. A weight that had the potential to shift the whole narrative, like a black hole sucking in all the other sentences around it.

She closed her eyes and took a breath, steeling herself to say the words she hadn’t been able to say aloud for two years. Words she only dared whisper in the darkness alone, where they somehow felt less real—and therefore less like bullet wounds in her chest.

“Don’t do it, Jadey.” Jasmine’s breath was icy against her skin. Her unsettling presence appearing without warning, the way it always did. No matter how prepared Jade was, it always made her jump. “You promised not to tell anyone. You’ll ruin everything.”

But it was time. Jade was done. And everything was already ruined.

She opened her eyes and reality flooded back in. “Jasmine Palmer is—was my twin sister.”

There it is.

Chapter Fifty-Four

“Why don’t I make you some tea?” Isabel said gently as Jade sank into a dining room chair and back into a comatose state.

It was almost eight o’clock. Isabel was starting to feel hunger pangs. Eventually, they’d have to scrape together something for dinner but after a quick glance into the pantry, she found nothing but a few cans of beans and the stale crackers they’d had for breakfast.

She grabbed the kettle and turned on the sink. As she watched the water trickle feebly from the faucet, she thought about Jade’s confession at the firepit.

Losing her twin sister.

Left with only her memory—a lingering presence that she could physically see and talk to.

Isabel was no stranger to grief and the ways it could twist reality. How many times had she, too, lain awake in the sleepless void of night, speaking aloud to her mother, begging for guidance?

I went to his book signing again, Mami. I know I shouldn’t have. I just had to see him again…

I found his address today. I could go to his house. I could force him to confront what he did…

Oh, Mami, what have I done? I feel so lost. Do you think I’m a bad person? Do you still pray for me?

Kettle finally full, Isabel set it on the burner. She turned the knob and lit a match. Nothing happened. She tried again, twisting the knob as far as it would go before striking another match. The stove didn’t light. It wasn’t until her third attempt that she noted the eerie silence when she turned the burner. Shouldn’t she hear something? The faint hiss of gas flowing to the stove?

Isabel’s chest tightened. No food. Barely any water. And now no gas?

“I think something might be wrong with the propane line,” Isabel said, poking her head into the dining room.

Jade didn’t respond. She stared hollow-eyed at the wall, tears streaming behind her glasses.

“I’m just gonna go check on it,” Isabel said, louder than necessary. Although, honestly, what was the point? The facilitator was gone again, lost in the shadow of her grief.

The first time Jasmine spoke to Jade was at her own funeral. Attendance was dismal. Not because Jasmine didn’t know anyone, but because Jade didn’t invite anyone. She’d decided it was best to keep the event low-key, to minimize the chance of the press catching wind of it and reopening the Pandora’s box of hate tweets. She could only imagine what they’d say to this.

Jasmine Palmer got what she deserved.

This is what happens when you lie.

Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?

It took Jade two hours to build up the courage to peer into the open casket. The viewing room had emptied of its handful of visitors and she was alone with her sister.

They’d spent so much time alone over the years. With parents who both worked full-time, Jade and Jasmine were forced to take care of each other. Although it was usually Jade who assumed the parental role. The protector. Jasmine was always the wild one and Jade the cautious one.

When they were kids, Jasmine would conjure up epic adventures for them to take together. Couch cushions became battling pirate ships, the art on the wall came to life with mysteries and hidden clues, their mother’s perfume bottles became an inventory of magic elixirs and dangerous potions. As they got older, the adventures moved from couch cushions to keyboards. They’d sit huddled around a laptop, dreaming up stories to write, exchanging words and ideas, filling page after page with their shared narratives. Co-authors for life.

Until Jasmine took one of those stories to a writing conference in Detroit.

And their adventure came to a screeching halt.

Jade stepped up to the open casket, feeling like her knees might give out. But when she peered at the young woman lying in the hunter green dress, she didn’t see Jasmine at all. She saw her own drawn and lifeless face staring back at her. Even with a few distinct differences—Jasmine’s slimmer face and Jade’s slightly crooked bottom teeth—most people could never tell them apart. Until they met them. Then the word identical went right out the window. But like many twins, they were connected by some indescribable bond. Like an invisible tether.

“It should be me,” Jade whispered, her voice cracking. “I should be lying there. Not you.”

“Oh, Jadey, don’t be so dramatic.”

Jade leapt back from the coffin, a strangled sound burbling from her lips.

“And who picked out that hideous dress? You couldn’t find anything better in my closet?”

Jade spun frantically, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. It didn’t seem to have a direction. It was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“You could have at least chosen my best color. You know green washes me out.”

“Jasmine?” she croaked, terrified of the question. And even more terrified of the answer.

“Miss me?” the voice whispered in her ear. Breathy and ice-cold.

Jade rushed back to the casket, half expecting Jasmine to leap out, perform an elaborate bow, and announce “Gotcha!”

But the lifeless body was just as lifeless as when Jade had found it on the bathroom floor three days ago.

“Eww,” said Jasmine with a shudder. “Let’s not think about that. It’s disturbing.”

“How are you doing that? Where are you?” Jade continued to spin, searching for the source of the prank. It was obviously a prank.

“I’m right here.”

And that’s when Jade first saw her. Sitting cross-legged on a chair, idly picking at her black nail polish, wearing her favorite Twisted Sister T-shirt—the one she died in. She wasn’t exactly the same Jasmine who was lying in the casket—a mercurial force of nature who captivated everyone she met—but some unsettling amalgamation of Jade’s memories. A capricious child and a rebellious teenager trapped in the body of a twenty-seven-year-old enchantress. Both a little girl who played pirates and a woman who played with fire. Impish and intoxicating at the same time.

“Am I losing my mind?” Jade asked, mouth dry, palms damp, unable to tear her eyes away from the impossible sight. “Are you real?”

“Mmm.” Jasmine flicked a piece of nail polish off her finger. “Real is a subjective term.”

Jade started to hyperventilate. She collapsed into an empty chair and dropped her head between her knees, struggling to take deep breaths.

“Relax.” Jasmine was suddenly beside her, materializing out of thin air. Jade shrieked and jumped out of the chair.

“Don’t freak out.” Jasmine chuckled. “It’s only temporary.”

Panic lodged in her throat. “What do you mean, temporary?”

“I’m a coping mechanism,” said Jasmine in an authoritative tone that would have made Jade laugh if she weren’t hyperventilating. “I’m here to get you through this.”

Jade’s head started to throb. “Get me through what?”

Jasmine snorted as if the answer were obvious. “The whole world thinks I’m a liar. But we both know I’m not. You need to clear my name. It’s the only way you’ll be able to move on. But you can’t do it alone.”

Jade shut her eyes. “No. This isn’t real. Go away! Go away!”

“Jadey.” A chill spread across her skin and when she looked down, Jasmine’s hand was on her arm. Ice-cold but impossibly solid. “I can’t go away. You need me.”

“I don’t need you!” Jade cried, yanking her arm away. “You’re not real. I’m imagining you.”

“Just because you imagine something doesn’t mean it’s not real. Any writer will tell you that.”

“Please, just go away,” Jade begged, turning her back on her sister.

“Fine,” Jasmine said with an air of finality. The room fell silent. Jade waited, wondering if she really had chased her sister back to the grave. She spun around, seeing nothing but empty chairs once again. The knot in her chest began to unravel. Until…

You might not need me. But I need you, Jadey. And you know it. We need to fight back.

This time the voice came from inside, a reminder that they were not separate. They never were. They’d emerged from the same cell, forever connected, no matter how much it hurt.

Somewhere in her mind, Jasmine started humming “We’re Not Gonna Take It.”

A sob erupted from deep within Jade. She should have known it was no use arguing with her sister. Whenever Jasmine got an idea lodged in her mind, there was no unlodging it. She was the dreamer and Jade the doer. That’s how it had always been. And apparently, that’s how it would stay. Even now.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” Jasmine materialized again, speaking in that prodding voice she’d used countless times to lure Jade into one of her schemes. She stood up on a chair, raised her fist in the air like she was about to lead troops into battle. “One last adventure. Our magnum opus. Co-writers reunited for one more story!” She paused, a sly grin spreading across her face. “Ooh, does this make me a ghostwriter?”

For the record, I never lied about Jasmine. I just misled. There’s a difference. And in mystery novels, it’s all the difference. Lying is cheating. I didn’t cheat. Don’t believe me? Go back and reread Jade’s chapters if you want. I played fair.

Jasmine is a twist on a classic trope. In murder mysteries, there’s often an absent character who everyone believes is dead. It’s only later revealed they were alive all along, biding their time, waiting in the shadows to get their revenge. An uninvited guest.

That trope has been overdone, so I simply reversed it.

Jasmine Palmer has been dead the whole time.

In fact, her death was one of my earliest inspirations for this book. The accusation, the scandal, the destruction. They were all part of the seed. The why.

I just needed to wait for the right moment to reveal it to you.

That’s what Step 8 is for. Yes, it’s about putting your characters in danger and threatening their lives, but it’s also about narrowing down the pool of suspects. Slowly peeling away the layers of misdirection until all that’s left is the truth.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Simone’s flashlight beam bounced across the stark windowless walls of the laundry room, illuminating towering metal racks and an industrial-size washer and dryer. But no dead bodies.

“Yoo-hoo!” Alastair called out, peeking into the washing machine. “Anyone in here?” He closed the door and moved on to the dryer.

Simone tried to concentrate on the search for Marjorie as she opened cabinet doors and poked in corners, but her mind kept drifting back to that paper she’d found in Evelyn’s locket.

A rejection letter.

From Ian McCloud.

Thank you for submitting your novel, Shallow Graves, to the Murder She Wrote competition.

Why did that line stick out to Simone the most? It was tickling the edges of her subconscious like errant stars trying to find their way back to a constellation.

Simone popped open the side panel of the housekeeping cart parked in the middle of the room and swept her flashlight inside. It was definitely big enough to fit a body, but it was empty.

“She’s not in here,” Alastair concluded, pulling the folded-up floor plan from his pocket. They’d been all over the first and second floors but there was still no sign of Marjorie. “Looks like we’ve only got the courtyard remaining.”

Simone headed for the door but paused as a thought occurred to her. She aimed her flashlight back at the housekeeping cart. “Is this the only laundry room?”

Alastair snorted. “As if I care.”

“I’m just wondering how Marjorie got that cart up to the other floors.”

Alastair glanced at the map again. “Well, there is an elevator.”

“Yeah, but the power’s been out,” Simone reminded him.

“Hence it remains here,” Alastair said with a twinge of impatience. “Shall we?”

Outside, night had draped an eerie veil over the courtyard, twisting the shadows of the cloisters into long, grotesque shapes. Simone shivered, wishing she’d brought a sweater with her.

“So, if you were going to murder someone,” she began, thinking again of the email in Evelyn’s locket, “you’d need a motive, right?”

“Naturally.” Alastair pushed aside the low-hanging branches of a shrub to peer into the darkened space beneath.

“Any idea what the motive for Ian’s murder might have been?”

“Well, I assume it has something to do with the flash drive that was slipped under my door last night.”

Simone’s foot tripped on the uneven ground. “A flash drive?” She tried to sound nonchalant but her voice rattled. “Someone gave you a flash drive last night?”

Her mind snapped back to the crushed remains she’d swept off the boulder—twisted metal and fragments of circuitry.

“The contents were very interesting.” Alastair caught her gaze in the moonlight and held it tight. Too tight. Like he knew.

It’s over, Simone thought, defeat pressing down on her chest. She’d destroyed her copy but she hadn’t controlled the spread. She hadn’t worked fast enough. Now it was too late. Alastair had seen the truth. And god knows how many others.

She swallowed. “What was on it?”

He leaned in, his vodka breath hot on her face, and whispered, “A writing sample.”

Simone coughed on the thin mountain air, certain she’d misunderstood. “Excuse me?”

“The first thirty pages of the old woman’s novel.”

Simone nearly toppled over with relief. That was certainly not what was on her flash drive. “Why would someone slip pages of Evelyn’s novel under your door?”

“I imagine because they have the same suspicions about her that I do.”

“That she’s a…” She lowered her voice. “…murderer?”

He nodded once.

“You got that from a writing sample?”

“I got that from a plagiarized writing sample.”

“WHAT?”

Alastair motioned for her to lower her voice and beckoned her closer. “The pages that were on that flash drive? From her book? I’ve already read them. That’s how I know she didn’t write them. Sure, she changed the title and a few details—the male protagonist is now a woman, the setting has changed from a big city to a small town, et cetera—just enough that a less keen eye wouldn’t notice.” He proudly tapped his temple. “But I noticed right away. It’s hard to forget the novel that slipped through your fingers, especially when it’s expected to land a seven-figure book deal.” He gritted his teeth. “That’s quite a commission I’m going to lose out on.”

Something cold slithered across Simone’s flesh and she was certain it wasn’t just the crisp night air. “Whose novel is expected to land a seven-figure book deal?”

“The assistant’s, of course.”

“Bennett?”

Somewhere in the forest, a twig snapped. Simone jumped and spun around, squinting into the shadows. She swore she saw a figure standing among the trees.

“Surely he’s told you about it,” said Alastair.

The cold intensified until Simone’s teeth were chattering. “No, he didn’t.”

“It’s the talk of the town. My spies tell me there was a preempt offer for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. But if he’s smart, he won’t take that. If it goes to auction, it’ll sell for much more.”

“And you’re not representing it?”

Alastair’s expression soured. “No. Ian wouldn’t let me. He said it would be a conflict of interest. The selfish bastard. Now another agent is about to make a fortune off it. I will say one thing about that cat lady. She’s got good taste. If you’re going to steal a book, that’s the one to steal. It’s the best thing McCloud’s assistant has written in his life. Before I read that, I thought the poor hack would never be able to string together a decent plot.”

Darkness had consumed the monastery grounds, but Bennett welcomed it. The darkness had been his companion, his ally, for three days now.

His flashlight beam sliced through the trees as he walked up and down the path to the hot springs, searching for that canary-yellow cardigan. It shouldn’t be hard to see. It was nearly fluorescent. He’d been searching forever and there was still no sign of the old hag. She was eighty years old, for fuck’s sake. How far could she go?

Something crunched on the gravel path behind him and he spun around, his flashlight beam settling on a pair of gleaming green eyes.

“Oh, it’s just you,” he muttered to the cat.

Dexter hissed in reply.

“Shut up,” Bennett said and kept walking. “Evelyn?” he called out. “Are you there?” And then, just in case, he added in a lighthearted tone, “Are you fucking with me?”

There was no response.

Yet, there was no doubt left in his mind that someone was fucking with him. It was the only way to explain why Evelyn Channing was here. At this conference. On this weekend.

Bennett had never bothered to remember her name. Never needed to. All he needed to know was she was an eighty-something widow and would probably die soon. Even if she didn’t, she lived in middle-of-nowhere Texas. What the hell was she going to do to him from there?

But the moment he’d opened that flash drive and glimpsed that manuscript—the moment her name had appeared on the title page—Bennett knew. The question was, who else did? Who had invited her here? And who had slipped the flash drive into his pocket? Was it the same person who’d slid the note under his door on the first night?

That money doesn’t belong to you.

He’d been so convinced it had come from McCloud. It matched his handwriting and hinted at something only McCloud could have known.

But now it was clear that wasn’t the case. Someone else knew. Someone still alive.

Another crunch on the gravel. Bennett’s pulse quickened. He swung his flashlight again, the beam cutting through the inky darkness to reveal a shadowy structure in the distance.

The gazebo.

Movement caught his eye. A figure crawling around the perimeter. Her yellow cardigan glowed in the moonlight, a beacon in the night visible for miles. Like a radiant spotlight broadcasting her location to every predator in the vicinity.

Bennett’s grip tightened on the flashlight. They’d have to get in line.

He’d worked too hard and come too far to let an eighty-year-old nobody from middle-of-nowhere Texas stand in his way.

Everything was fusing together in Simone’s mind. Those jumbled, scattered stars slowly becoming a cohesive, shimmering constellation of truths and lies.

Alastair was still talking, lamenting over his lost commission, but Simone’s mind wasn’t even in the courtyard anymore. She had slipped back in time. To a corner booth at a hotel restaurant in Miami, where she’d flown to meet Ian after his signing at Books & Books over a year ago.

“Here’s to Bennett!” Ian had said as he extended his champagne flute toward hers. The light from the table lamp twinkled in his dark, mischievous eyes. “The best assistant money can buy.” His smile held the promise of amazing sex. The kind that left them both sweaty and hoarse from screaming.

“To Bennett!” Simone took a long swig. Why they were toasting Ian’s assistant, she had no idea, but as the champagne buzzed through her veins and a tingle spread between her legs, she found it hard to care.

Simone had met Bennett only a handful of times. He had an intensity about him that put her on edge. Like a spool of thread wound too tight. And he always looked at her like he wanted to either murder her or fuck her. Fortunately, she rarely saw him. Ian kept him sequestered in an adjoining hotel room, answering fan mail or scheduling social media posts—all the tasks Ian didn’t want to do.

“You look hot as shit tonight, baby.” Ian slipped an arm around Simone’s waist.

She nestled against him, savoring his good mood. They were getting rarer by the day. “So do you.”

He kissed her behind the ear, just where she liked it. “Thank you for coming.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, treading carefully. Ian rarely thanked her for anything—except orgasms. “I’m happy you asked. I thought you had too much work.”

“I did.” He reached for the bottle to top off their glasses. The dancing stream of golden bubbles was mesmerizing. “Until I realized, that’s why we have assistants.”

“Ah,” said Simone. “So that’s why we’re toasting him.”

“My fucking publicist signed me up to guest judge some ridiculous amateur writing competition. Five fucking manuscripts to read by tomorrow morning. Like I have time for that shit.” He set the bottle back down in the ice bucket with more force than necessary and Simone felt his buoyant mood slipping away.

“And you gave them to Bennett?” she said with a playful smile, running a finger along his jawline. She felt like she was grasping at the string of a runaway balloon. “You clever little devil.”

He grinned. “Now the chump is up in his room reading fifteen hundred pages of senseless crap, while I get to spend the evening with the most beautiful woman on the East Coast.”

He slipped a hand between her legs. Simone shivered at his touch, just the way he liked it.

“Only the East Coast?” She cocked an eyebrow, keeping her tone playful, sultry, trying to ignore the fire burning behind her eyes.

His fingers inched upward while his dark, brooding gaze stayed locked on hers. “Don’t be greedy.” His tone was just as playful. But she was a writer, too. She understood subtext.

The fire started to spread. A burning rage that threatened to spew forth from her mouth and scorch right through this rare, fragile moment if she wasn’t careful.

She reached for her champagne. “To Bennett!” she said again, clinking his glass.

She drank and drank until the alcohol burned her throat, the bubbles stung her brain, and all those bitter feelings were chased back into the dark recesses of her mind.

“Bennett.” She said the name aloud now, an anchor to the present, pulling her back to the monastery’s courtyard as a subtle breeze tickled her skin. “Bennett’s manuscript is going to sell for seven figures.”

Alastair stood up from searching under a hedge. “Looks like it.”

“And you think Evelyn tried to pass it off as her own,” she repeated, the light from all those wayward stars continuing to reach for one another, longing to connect.

The agent clicked his tongue. “Sad, isn’t it? That some writers are so insecure they feel the need to steal from others.”

“Yes.” It felt like the outside temperature had dropped ten degrees in an instant. “It is sad.”

Information was flooding Simone’s brain too fast for her to sort through it all at once. But she didn’t need to. All she needed was a single piece. The link that brought it all together.

Thank you for submitting your novel, Shallow Graves, to the Murder She Wrote competition.

The stars fell into perfect alignment, lighting up the dark sky in a glorious constellation. And at the very center, the brightest, most obvious star of all was Bennett.

Bennett, who fancied himself a literary genius but couldn’t structure a decent plot.

Bennett, who was fed up with doing Ian’s grunt work and desperate for success of his own.

Bennett, who was forced to judge the Murder She Wrote competition while his boss was fucking an ex-model in the adjoining room.

“What did you do with this flash drive?” Simone asked in a shaky voice. “The one with Evelyn’s writing sample on it?”

Alastair shrugged. “I slipped it into the assistant’s pocket while he was asleep.”

“You did WHAT?”

“He has the right to know that someone stole his work,” said Alastair defensively.

Panic flooded her veins as she thought back to the conversation in the foyer when they were preparing to search for Marjorie’s body. “Bennett suggested that we divide the monastery into zones and search in groups,” she remembered aloud. “And then you paired him with…” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my god! Evelyn!”

“Bennett?” Evelyn froze in the beam of his flashlight. “Oh, thank goodness! Where have you been? I looked everywhere! I even went back inside, but you weren’t there.”

“Sorry, I got lost in the woods,” he said. “But I’m back now.”

“You have to come see!” Evelyn exclaimed, beckoning him to the perimeter of the gazebo. “I found something! When I was looking for Marjorie.”

“Did you?” he asked, trying to infuse his voice with interest. But the truth was, he couldn’t care less about what she’d found. She wouldn’t be his problem for much longer.

“Look!” She aimed her flashlight beam into the dirt. “Tire tracks.”

“Really?”

“Yes! Come see!” She gestured for him to follow her into the trees. “I think I figured out where they lead.”

“I’ll be right behind you.” He forced his mouth into an easy smile. The same smile that had won over Simone Prescott on the bell tower yesterday when he promised to be her alibi. The same smile he’d flashed Ian McCloud every day for ten fucking years.

He was so good at that smile. Good at playing a role. The lowly assistant who wanted nothing more than to serve his successful asshole of a boss, meanwhile harboring secret bitter resentment and a string of his own failed novels. He was almost forty years old, for fuck’s sake. He should have been published ten times over by now. Bennett had all the voice and lyricism of the greats. He had the understated style of Hemingway, the wit of Twain, the complexity of Faulkner, the sharp dialogue of Chandler, and even the macabre of Poe.

He could string together sentences of pure poetry. But he could never figure out how to string together a damn plot.

Plot. It was so overrated. Yet it was what people wanted. More important, it was what publishers wanted. And Evelyn’s manuscript had it. It also had grit and substance. The perfect balance that Bennett had somehow never been able to strike.

Of course, he’d made changes. The title was all wrong. The setting of a small Louisiana town was too quaint. And a protagonist that bold and insightful had to be a man. A much younger man. A sixty-three-year-old divorced cat lady in that role was too hard to believe. Too cozy. Too unsexy. So, he’d made improvements, adding just enough of his signature angst to make it feel like his own.

Clearly, they’d been the right improvements because, just as the email from his agent had said, the preempt offer was for a quarter of a million dollars, but Bennett knew it would sell for much more at auction. He doubted Evelyn’s version would have fetched anything near that amount.

So, in a way, he’d done her book a favor. He’d elevated it to its full potential.

And his plan would have gone perfectly if the old bat hadn’t shown up here.

His hands started to clench again. He shook them out. This was just the way it had to happen. He’d been swerving for three days now, what was one more twist? Writers were constantly having to veer off course, change directions, revise.

This was no different.

“I was able to follow the tracks all the way back to the hot springs, which means…”

Bennett could still hear Evelyn prattling in the distance. The sound grew fainter with every rise and fall of his chest. He extinguished his flashlight and closed his eyes. As he pictured her slender wrinkled neck, his hands shook in anticipation.

Her voice grew fainter still, until he could no longer hear it.

Then Bennett opened his eyes and with quiet, careful footsteps, slipped into the darkness.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Darkness.

Darius was floating in a black void. It wasn’t the night sky. There were no stars. It was some formless, unnamed darkness that held all the possibilities of the universe. Strangely, though, only one possibility shimmered into focus.

Isabel.

Her exquisite face danced before him like a vision. Those endless brown eyes, those loose strands of dark curls that swept across her forehead, revealing a sliver of a scar beneath.

“Darius, can you hear me? Darius, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

He felt something warm and soft on his skin. Long, slender fingers tangling with his. He tried to blink but his eyelids no longer functioned. All he could do was stare at that vision, which was flickering in and out like an old-fashioned movie reel with missing frames.

“Darius? Please do something. Say something!”

It was her. She was here! She was singing to him! She sounded like an angel.

“Oh, please don’t be dead. Please. Not you. Not you, too.”

Now she was crying. Over him! She loved him!

“Baaahuuuaaaa.”

What was that sound? Was he trying to speak? Baaahuuuaaaa was not what he intended to say.

“You’re alive! Thank god!” She collapsed over him, pressing down on his ribs, which screamed in pain. But he didn’t care. She smelled amazing. “What happened to you?”

“Shaaabaaaahhaaauaa,” he tried again, frustrated by his inept lips.

“It’s okay.” She sat up and brushed the sides of his face with her fingertips. “It’s okay.”

“M-m-m-ur—” That was closer. He was getting closer.

Isabel’s forehead furrowed. “Are you trying to say—”

“M-m-m-mur-mur-murder!” he finally spat out. He did it! He’d spoken a whole word. He’d never felt more accomplished in his life.

“What?” A shadow passed over her face. “The murderer tried to kill you?”

“N-n-no.” Darius focused all his energy on shaking his head. “W-w-wri-wri-ter.”

“The writer tried to kill you?” A flicker of disbelief crossed her face.

Darius tried to sit up before remembering his broken ribs. He moaned and clutched his side. It was only now he realized he was on the floor of the staff corridor. The door to the utility room was open behind him. “L-l-locked in there…g-g-gas leak.”

Isabel glanced at the open door and sniffed. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Propane…odorless…in its natural state,” he said, grateful that his tongue was functional again, but every word was a hammer to his skull. “How…did you get in? The door was locked.”

“I got the key from the office,” she said, then quickly added, “The cupboard was open. I found you lying at the top of the stairs and dragged you into the hallway. I thought you were dead.”

“The writer…” He groaned and clutched his temples. It felt like someone had unleashed a violent thunderstorm in his brain. “Has been trying to kill me…”

“Darius,” Isabel said in a grave tone. “If someone has been trying to kill you, it’s the killer.”

“No.” Darius shook his head. “It’s the writer.”

She blew out a frustrated breath. “How would the writer try to kill you?”

“She can do anything she wants.” He winced again. “All she has to do is type it and it happens. She sabotaged the brake on McCloud’s motorcycle so I’d crash and then locked me in there and released the propane in the tanks.”

Isabel’s brow furrowed. “But wouldn’t someone have to physically do those things? Doors don’t just lock themselves.”

“Yes. There was someone on the other side of the door. I saw their shadow.”

“So then, that was the killer!” Isabel argued.

Darius’s head throbbed. “No. It was just the writer describing a shadow under the door to make it suspenseful for the reader.”

Isabel sighed. “Darius, you need to get some sleep. Look at yourself. You’re a wreck. You only have one pant leg!”

“I know!” he cried. “Because the writer has been trying to kill me!”

Isabel raised a brow. “By stealing your pant leg?”

He pushed himself onto his hands, wincing. “She’s trying to stop me from finding her plot holes.”

“Plot holes?”

“Yes! The landslide. It was triggered by an explosion. I found proof! It wasn’t caused by the storm. Neither was the power outage. The fuses were removed from the breaker box. Which means the generator didn’t error out either. It was sabotaged!”

That had to convince her. But oddly, she didn’t look convinced.

“Those aren’t plot holes. They’re just more evidence that there’s a killer among us.”

His head throbbed again. “Huh?”

“Darius.” She lowered her voice and peered over her shoulder. “We found a strange map in Evelyn’s room. She circled areas of the mountainside that were unstable. As if—”

“The writer could have planted that,” Darius cut in, “to make Evelyn look suspicious.”

Isabel sighed. “Isn’t it possible that whoever killed McCloud and Marjorie also triggered the landslide and cut the power and sabotaged the generator? Isn’t that something a killer would do?”

Realization washed over him, and he sagged against the doorframe. “You’re right. Those aren’t plot holes.”

Isabel looked relieved. “Exactly.”

“It’s just part of the plot,” he went on. “Writing a good murder is all about giving your killer two crucial things: motive and opportunity. The writer designed the landslide and the power outage to create the opportunity. They weren’t mistakes; they were clues for the detective to find.” He released a heavy sigh. “I played right into her hand. Again.”

“Darius—”

He jerked upright. “But then why would she try to kill me?”

“For the last time, there’s no imaginary writer trying to kill you!” Isabel cried. “If someone locked you in there and released the gas, it was a real person, acting under their own free will. And I’m betting it’s the same person who cut the power and set up the secret Wi-Fi network and—”

“There’s a secret Wi-Fi network?” Darius asked, his interest suddenly piqued.

“Yes, and McCloud’s laptop has been destroyed. Remember when we searched his room and it wasn’t there? Jade and I just found it in the firepit. Obviously, there was something on it the killer didn’t want found. That’s why they stole the spare key to his room and—” Her words cut off mid-breath. Her hand clapped to her mouth. “Oh my god, the key!”

Darius watched her eyes spark with sudden inspiration. God, he missed those moments of sudden inspiration. When you decipher a crucial clue in a mystery. He used to live for those moments. But now he knew what they really were. Fabrications. Manipulations. Lies.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Whatever you think you know right now, it’s not real. The writer is setting you up. Don’t fall for it.”

“Darius, I don’t have time for this! I know who stole the spare key. I know who had access to McCloud’s room the night he died. Which means I know who the killer is!”

“There’s no killer!” he cried.

“There’s no writer!” she cried back.

He collapsed, wincing from the pain in his ribs. “The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.”

She blinked down at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you understand?” Darius clutched his side. “She’s clearly using the key as bait. We’re well into Step 8, which means she needs to start narrowing down suspects and revealing the truth, and she’s using you—her new detective—to do it. She’s stringing you along the same way she did me. She wants to make it look like it’s all about who stole the key when—” This time, it was he who broke off, his face twisting with the same luminous revelation. “Oh my god, the key!”

“Yes!” said Isabel. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! I know who took it!”

“No!” He shook his head, lost in thought. “That’s the key! I didn’t see it before. I was too focused on the roadblock. I completely forgot about McCloud’s locked room. That’s the key!”

“To finding the killer?” Isabel confirmed.

“To sabotaging the writer!” Darius exclaimed. He jumped to his feet. Pain exploded in his rib cage but he barely felt it now. All he felt was that pulsing, euphoric adrenaline coursing through him, propelling him forward. This was it. The escape he’d been looking for. He didn’t have to find a plot hole, he just had to find the plot. And if anyone could find the plot it was Darius Walker.

“It makes perfect sense. She’s peeling away the layers of misdirection.” He started pacing, counting on his fingers. “If we’re still in Danger Descends, that means we’re only two steps away from the Spark in the Dark. I just need to get two steps ahead of her.”

Isabel sighed. “Okay, well, good luck with that. Meanwhile, I have a killer to catch.”

Darius held her gaze long enough to arch a single brow. “And I have a writer to catch.”

For the love of God, Darius. Why won’t you just DIE?

You know what? It doesn’t even matter anymore. Darius is too late. He can’t get two steps ahead of me, because he’s already ten steps behind.

You see, what he doesn’t realize is that Isabel isn’t his only replacement. This time, I wasn’t stupid enough to put all my eggs in one basket. Or all my clues in one detective. This time, I was smarter. I learned from my mistakes in the first half and I revised. This time, I planted multiple clues for multiple characters to find. To ensure I wouldn’t lose control of the narrative again.

And my plan is working. The events are already in motion. This train has already left the station and there’s nothing Darius Walker can do to derail it now.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

“We have to find Bennett!” Simone called to Alastair as she raced across the foyer. “He’s alone with Evelyn.” She burst into the dining room, nearly colliding with the facilitator.

“What’s happening?” Jade asked, blinking like she’d just come out of a trance.

“Evelyn is in danger!” Simone shouted, sprinting to the patio doors.

“Hold up!” Alastair burst into the room, out of breath. “You don’t really think he’d…just because she stole his manuscript?”

“What manuscript?” Jade asked, glancing between the two of them.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong!” cried Simone. “Bennett is the one who stole the manuscript! He changed the title and the details and tried to sell it as his own.” She yanked open the doors and peered out at the darkened landscape, searching for signs of movement. “And yes, I do think he’d kill to protect his million-dollar book deal.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jade, holding out her hand. “Is that why the laptop was destroyed? Did Bennett do that?”

Simone spun to her. “What laptop?”

“McCloud’s laptop,” she said. “Isabel and I found it in the firepit.”

“He must have thought Ian had evidence of what he’d done,” Simone realized aloud. “So he destroyed the laptop, hoping he’d covered all his tracks.” She glared at Alastair. “But then you slipped him that flash drive.”

Simone charged out the doors and down the patio steps, her flashlight beam piercing the night. The monastery’s vast grounds stretched out before her like a shadowy labyrinth, filling her with hopelessness. They could be anywhere.

But she had to try. For Evelyn. And for herself. She was the hero of her own story now. And she was not going to let another arrogant, entitled asshole get away with anything.

She leapt off the final step and raced down the cobblestone path to the hot springs, her lungs already begging for a reprieve, but she refused to slow down. She burst into the clearing, calling out “Evelyn! Bennett!” The hot springs were empty.

She listened for movement or voices, but all she heard was the sound of her own labored breaths, every inhale and exhale a ticking clock, counting down the seconds of Evelyn’s life.

If she was even still alive…

The sound of urgent footsteps made her jump. She spun to find Alastair and Jade barreling into the clearing after her, their faces mirroring her own mix of fear and determination.

“We should split up! Jade, check near the gazebo. Alastair, the pool shed,” Simone directed, before sprinting into the trees. The gnarled branches snagged at her clothes and hair. With every heartbeat thundering in her ears, her despair mounted. With every turn and slice of her flashlight through the branches, her muscles tensed in anticipation of what she might find.

She slowed to a stop, listening, her frantic breaths like puffs of smoke in the night air.

Then, somewhere behind her, a twig snapped. She whirled around, her torch beam bouncing wildly, making it nearly impossible to see.

But the flicker of movement in the trees was unmistakable. She aimed her flashlight into the distance and her body turned to stone. Her heart slowed to a steady, bleak pace, as if it knew even before she did that they were too late.

Straight ahead, less than a hundred feet away, darting back to the monastery like a fugitive on the run, was Bennett.

And he was alone.

The moment Isabel burst into Bennett’s room she was overwhelmed by the same cloying scent of tobacco. She wasted no time, opening desk drawers and nightstands, rifling through the closet, armoire, and sheets. Until finally, in the top drawer of the bathroom vanity, she found it.

A pack of cigarettes.

She zeroed in on the label, quickly and dizzyingly, like a shaky zoom-in shot in a movie, designed to throw the audience off balance. But it was Isabel who felt like she might topple over.

Lucky Strikes.

Bennett smoked Lucky Strikes. The same brand her dad used to smoke when he was stressed. He’d always tried to hide it, spraying himself with musk and his mouth with mint, but Isabel could smell it on him. It clung to his clothes the way it was clinging to her brain now. Seeped into her subconscious. The same odor she’d smelled in the office when she was crouched under the desk—moments before she’d climbed out to discover the key to Ian McCloud’s room had been returned.

Bennett.

He stole McCloud’s laptop and destroyed it.

He had access to McCloud’s room the night he was killed.

The man who’d been so quick to dismiss The Bestseller Formula at dinner that first night, calling the author a “wannabe hack.” Yet he’d followed it to the letter to plot his boss’s murder.

Bennett was the killer!

Footsteps echoed outside the bathroom door. Isabel froze.

And now Bennett was returning to his room.

Are you surprised? You shouldn’t be. I set it up way back in Step 2, when I told you to follow the scent. Remember? I warned you there would be something fishy to sniff out. And Isabel, my trusty scent-tracking hound, has led you right to him.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

“Bennett! I know you’re up here!” Simone charged down the south wing to Bennett’s room. She was pure adrenaline now—it had seeped into her bones, her tissues, her very essence. Every fleeting passion she’d ever chased, every attempt to feel relevant in a world that had treated her like a sidenote in the margin, had converged into this one true purpose.

“Bennett!” She threw open his door and charged inside. “Where is she? What did you do to her, you son of a bitch!”

Bennett froze, looking as guilty as a fox with a mouthful of chicken feathers. “Who?”

“Evelyn! Where is she?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes were crazed and his brow glistened with sweat. “Last I saw her, she was rambling about tire tracks and then I lost her in the woods. I turned around and she was gone.”

Simone grabbed the poker from the fireplace and thrust it into his face.

He scrabbled backward, tripping over his feet. “Holy shit. Have you lost your mind?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Bennett,” she warned. “I know what you did. I know about the manuscript you stole from her and tried to pass off as your own.”

Bennett stiffened. It was all the confirmation she needed. She moved closer until Bennett was pressed up against the wall, the sharp end of the poker inches from his perfectly cleft chin.

“I saw the email,” Simone said through gritted teeth. “The one Ian supposedly sent. I know you judged the Murder She Wrote competition in his place.”

“So what?” Bennett snapped. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“At least that’s what you hoped. That no one would look too closely at the two manuscripts or the metadata that proves which one was written first. After all, who cares about a losing entry from some amateur writing competition? Who would possibly read both books?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But Alastair did read both,” Simone went on. “He was the one who gave you the flash drive with Evelyn’s manuscript on it. Remarkably similar to the manuscript you tried to get him to represent.”

Bennett’s brow furrowed. “He gave me that flash drive?”

Simone tightened her grip around her weapon. “You motherfucker. You wrote that horrible email. You sent it from Ian’s laptop. You told Evelyn to give up on her book, on her dream. Because you couldn’t have her pursuing the same novel you were trying to sell as your own. Alastair said it’s going to go for at least a million. But you didn’t earn any of that. You’re a fucking fraud.”

“I earned it!” Bennett exploded. “Every fucking cent! Do you know what I’ve done to get here?”

“I do now,” said Simone in a voice so calm it frightened even her. “And so did Ian. He figured it out. When you showed him your shiny new manuscript, he got suspicious and started to dig. I imagine you deleted any evidence from the cloud. But he must have found a copy of the original submission on his laptop and recognized the similarities. That’s why he told Alastair not to represent your novel. He was trying to protect him from a scandal. Ian threatened to reveal the truth, but you were not about to lose your one chance at success. So you killed him and destroyed his laptop to keep your dirty little secret from coming out.”

“For the last time, I didn’t kill anyone!”

“You thought you got away with it,” Simone continued, undeterred. “Then the housekeeper discovered your crime, so you had to kill her too. That’s why you were the last to arrive in the stairwell when we found her body. You couldn’t just come down the stairs from where you pushed her. You had to go the long way around to the main staircase.”

“You’re delusional,” he muttered.

She pushed up the sleeve of his sweater, revealing the scratch marks on his skin. “She fought back, didn’t she? That’s why you had to hide the body. Because it had your DNA on it.”

He yanked his arm away. “Those are from the woods. When I was crashing through tree branches looking for Evelyn.”

“You pretended to be on my side.” Simone’s voice cracked ever so slightly. “You pretended to be my alibi! And all the while, you were preparing to throw me under the bus when the police came.”

Bennett tried to step around her but she jabbed the poker against his ribs, keeping him locked in place. Who the hell was she right now? And where was all this gumption earlier in her life when she was being bossed around by misogynistic modeling agents and handsy photographers?

“That’s why you invited me here, wasn’t it?” Simone pressed. “You were the one who sent me that text from his phone, begging for a reconciliation, and then asked me to delete it. As his assistant, you’ve had a lot of practice writing as him.”

Bennett rolled his eyes. “This is absurd.”

Simone leaned ever so slightly on the poker, causing Bennett to wince. “You knew how Ian would react when I showed up unexpectedly. You knew we’d argue—you’d heard it all before. Years in an adjoining hotel room with too-thin walls. You probably memorized our standard fight choreography step by step, line by line. You knew what a ruckus Ian would make. Loud enough for multiple witnesses to hear. Did you give me that flash drive too? To rile me up for the fight?”

His brow furrowed. “What flash drive?”

“Stop playing dumb!” she roared. “You didn’t need me as an alibi. You needed me as a scapegoat.” Simone sucked in a breath as she was hit with a sudden realization. “That’s why you invited all of us here. You called Alastair, pretending to be from Pen Ultimate Writers. You told him that Ian had been disinvited so he’d show up and cause a scene. I bet you stole that money too and framed Alastair, just to create more confusion. Because you needed persons of interest. Suspects with better, more conspicuous motives. You write murder mysteries. You know how it works. You needed to flood the narrative with red herrings. A jilted lover, a disgruntled agent, an obsessive fan, a young woman who takes sleeping pills, and a jumpy conference facilitator. Characters just suspicious enough to cause a distraction. But the one person you didn’t expect to show up was Evelyn.”

“You’re fucking insane!” Bennett shouted.

But Simone didn’t even hear him. The sound of her own triumph drowned out everything else. She’d done it. She’d solved the case. Her! The model-turned-mystery-writer-turned-detective Simone Prescott! She could already see the look on the police officers’ faces when she handed them the open-and-shut case. She’d be famous, invited on to morning talk shows and true crime podcasts. Then she’d sell the publishing rights and nab her own million-dollar book deal.

“Darius was right,” she said quietly, basking in her own glow for once. “There is a ‘writer’ working behind the scenes.” She tipped the edge of her poker upward until it was centimeters from Bennett’s throbbing Adam’s apple. “The writer—the murderer—is you.”

Bennett’s eyes bore into her with a deep, pulsating fury. Then, in a flash, he lunged, catching her off guard. The poker clattered to the floor as Bennett’s hands wrapped around her neck.

The inky blackness of the forest enveloped Jade. Even with her flashlight, the shadows played tricks on her. Branches rustled in the distance. Lights flickered in the periphery of her vision, only to vanish when she turned around, swallowing up every last hope that Evelyn was still alive.

She stumbled through the dark, no longer aware of where she was on the monastery grounds. The gazebo was somewhere behind her, but she was lost in the woods.

“Not another one, please,” she whispered. “Please.”

Footsteps crunched on the ground behind her. Jade spun, flashlight swinging, a hopeful breath caught in her throat. “Evelyn?”

“Just me, I’m afraid,” said Alastair, blinking in the glare of her light.

She collapsed into tears again. “Oh god. Mr. Sinclair. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“Now, now.” Alastair rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure it’s not your fault.”

“It is!” she insisted. “I put Evelyn’s writing sample on that flash drive. I slipped it under your door last night, hoping you’d recognize her talent. But then you gave it to Bennett, and now he might have…Oh god. I thought I was helping her. I thought I was doing the right thing, but when will I ever learn? I never do the right thing. I’m never helping. I’m always destroying. I failed her. I failed everyone…” The sobs overtook her until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. Until the guilt consumed her like a murky lake, rising over her head, choking the life out of her.

She’d only come here to exonerate her sister. That’s why she’d bought the champagne, why she delivered it to McCloud’s room on Friday night. She was just supposed to get him drunk so she could find his laptop, find the proof of Jasmine’s innocence. No one was supposed to die.

“Are those yours?” asked Alastair, breaking into her thoughts with a tremor in his voice.

Jade glanced down. Then immediately stumbled back like she’d been bitten. She aimed her flashlight at the dirt, where a cluster of footprints had been etched into the earth.

“They could be,” said Jade, but even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true.

She moved her flashlight a few feet to the left, illuminating more indentations in the dirt. A trail to follow. But they didn’t have to go far.

Moments later, a swath of yellow fabric caught her flashlight’s glare and they both froze. Terror clawed at Jade’s throat as she bit back a scream.

Dexter lifted his head and blinked in the sudden light. He was curled up on the ground, protectively guarding the woman who lay face down in the dirt, nestled in a bed of dead leaves like a discarded doll.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Bennett’s hands squeezed around Simone’s throat. Spots danced in her vision as the strangled sound from her mouth faded to a low rasp. She was losing her will—both to fight back and to live. Her lungs, which had battled valiantly, surrendered as the last drops of air seeped out.

Then there was sweet release.

The transfer from Bennett’s grip to death’s grip was peaceful and effortless. Simone knew she must be dead because she saw nothing but blackness as her body collapsed to the ground. She hoped, at least, she was lying in an artistic, slightly provocative pose. Something she might have conjured up in her modeling days. A graceful twist of limbs and a coy tilt of the head. If she was going to make all the headlines, she at least wanted to look like a stylish corpse.

She did wonder, however, why she could still hear things. Mostly grunts of effort, like two people having awkward sex, followed by a finite thud and a soft rustling sound.

And if she was dead, why was she able to open her eyes?

When her vision focused, she knew what she saw couldn’t possibly be real. Bennett sat in the desk chair, hands and feet bound by the cord of a lamp. His forehead sported a growing welt and he looked woozy. But most surprising was the young woman hunched nearby, gasping for air.

Isabel struggled to catch her breath. She hadn’t fought that hard since her black belt test.

“Did you—How did you…” Simone couldn’t seem to form coherent thoughts.

A groan came from the desk chair where Bennett was just now realizing he was tied up. He struggled against his constraints, weakly at first, then with more force. Simone skittered backward, fumbling to her feet and hiding behind Isabel like a frightened child. But Isabel wasn’t worried. She’d had to improvise the restraints but she knew her knots would hold.

“What the fuck?” cried Bennett. “Let me go! I didn’t do anything!”

“C’mon now, Bennett,” Isabel said in a voice so calm she surprised herself. Maybe she had inherited something from her mother. “We both know that’s not true.”

“Exactly!” Simone yelled from behind her human shield. “You tried to kill me! Just like you killed Evelyn and Marjorie and Ian.”

“N-n-no. I didn’t kill anyone.”

Isabel stepped forward and shone her flashlight into Bennett’s steely gray eyes. “You really expect us to believe that?”

He blinked against the burning beam but didn’t look away, holding Isabel’s gaze with a dark intensity. “I don’t care what you believe. I’m telling the truth. I lost Evelyn in the woods. I have no idea where she went.”

“You’re a liar!” Simone yelled.

“Oh, who the fuck isn’t?” Bennett shot back, his eyes cutting maliciously to Simone. “You think anyone here is telling the truth? You think I believe your pathetic story about Friday night? You didn’t go to McCloud’s room to play dominatrix. You arrived with vengeance in your eyes, looking ready to kill someone.”

“He’s deflecting,” Isabel said, crossing her arms.

“Oh, I’m only getting started.” His steely gaze cut to her. “We haven’t even talked about where you were the night McCloud was killed. Or the fact that I caught you sneaking around his house three months ago.”

Isabel’s blood turned to ice.

“What?” Simone whirled on her.

“That’s right. McCloud called me in the middle of the night. Said one of the Dying Violets managed to get past his security gate. I found her poking around his office by the pond.”

Isabel’s heart rioted in her chest. He was there.

Stop! You fucking psycho! I’m calling the police!

“I chased her all around that fucking place, but lost her in the woods.”

“This won’t work, Bennett!” Isabel fought to keep her voice steady, menacing, but her fear cracked through. “I know you’re the killer.”

He pressed on, hearing the quaver, using it to his advantage. “I didn’t put it together until today. You psycho bitches all look the same.” He nodded to her arm. “But that tattoo isn’t part of the traditional costume, is it? I knew it looked familiar when I saw it on Friday night, I just couldn’t place it. Then I remembered I’ve seen it everywhere.”

Bennett’s gaze slithered up her arm and settled on her face with a reptilian coldness. “You lied too. You said you’d never met McCloud before this conference. But that isn’t true, is it? You two were intimately acquainted.”

“So you did sleep with him,” Simone whispered.

“Of course she did,” said Bennett. “They all do. They think they’re special, until he ghosts them and they realize they’re no different from the others. That’s why you kept showing up at his book events, lurking in the corners, seething from afar, always in that disguise to help you blend in.” His eyes narrowed cruelly. “What did he promise you? An introduction to his agent? A film deal for your fantasy series? And then you never heard from him again, right? It’s such a tired old cliché. You’d think a writer of his talent could at least come up with a more original storyline.”

Isabel tried to hold her ground, but his gaze was too intense, his words too unbearable.

He made promises he never intended to keep.

Mami warned me about men like R.S.

Her knees started to buckle. Beside her, she felt Simone’s stare like a physical weight, the space between them loaded with accusation. Isabel opened her mouth to speak, but footsteps shattered the silence.

“We found her!” Jade burst through the door, flustered and out of breath, with Alastair panting behind her. “We found Evelyn. She’s alive but unconscious. Hit in the head pretty bad.”

“Where?” Isabel asked.

“Outside on the grounds. Near the gazebo. Where she was searching with Bennett. We carried her back to her room.”

“Very…heavy…for…such…a…small…person…” Alastair panted.

Isabel reeled back to Bennett, finding the upper hand once again. “What do you have to say for yourself now?”

“I didn’t do it!” Bennett bellowed, fighting against his restraints. “I didn’t kill anyone!”

“You tried to kill me!” Simone fired back.

He rolled his eyes. “That? I thought we were just messing around! Doing a little role-play. From what I’ve heard over the years, you do like it rough.”

Whack. She slapped him across the cheek so hard his head snapped back against the chair and blood started to flow from his nose.

“Fuck!” he swore.

“You did it, Bennett,” Isabel said, regaining her confidence with every heartbeat. “You can deflect all you want, but I feel it in my bones. You killed McCloud and then Marjorie. You tried to kill Evelyn, just like you tried to kill Simone. You probably would have if I hadn’t stopped you.”

Alastair snorted, eyeing Bennett’s restraints. “She did that to you?”

“Shut up,” Bennett grumbled.

“She’s right.” Simone stepped up beside Isabel, creating a united front against him. “You tried to kill me. But I’m still here. Not as your alibi, but as the key witness who’s going to make sure you rot in prison for the rest of your life!”

“You have no proof.” Bennett’s voice was nasal as he tipped back his head to stanch the blood.

“What about the key?” Isabel challenged, shining the flashlight into Bennett’s eyes.

“What key?” he spat, squinting.

“The one to McCloud’s room,” said Isabel.

“I told you!” Bennett picked up his head. “I left it in there when I put him to bed on Friday night.”

“Which is why you had to steal the spare from the office,” said Isabel.

“What?” Bennett’s eyes filled with panic. “No, I didn’t—”

“It was missing from the hook the next morning,” Isabel said. “I went in there to get it when Darius wanted to search McCloud’s room, but it wasn’t there.”

“How did you open the cupboard?” asked Jade. “It was locked.”

“It was open when I checked,” Isabel lied. “Bennett must have left it unlocked.”

“That proves nothing,” Bennett scoffed. “Anyone could have stolen that key.”

“Except it wasn’t anyone,” said Isabel, glaring at him. “It was you. I was hiding under the desk when you put the key back. I smelled the tobacco on you. The tobacco from this brand.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and illuminated the label with her flashlight. “I found these in your bathroom. Lucky Strikes.”

Simone gasped. “You bastard.”

“Okay, fine,” Bennett growled. “I stole the spare key on Friday night. But only so I could get his laptop. When I got to his room, he was gone. Probably already at the hot springs.”

“Do you believe him?” Simone asked Isabel.

“Not for a second.” Isabel glared at Bennett. “That key gives you opportunity.”

“And Evelyn’s manuscript gives you motive!” Simone added.

“Now all we need is a murder weapon.” Isabel raised her brow at Simone like a challenge.

With a roar, Simone sprang into action, ransacking the room like a DEA agent on a drug bust. She wrenched open drawers and cabinets, ripped the sheets off the bed, and overturned Bennett’s suitcase onto the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bennett growled. “I didn’t kill him! I swear!”

“Everyone spread out!” Simone shouted as she dropped to her knees and began sifting through the contents of his suitcase. “Search every—”

Her directive cut short as her flashlight landed on something buried in the pile of clothes.

Hands trembling, she unearthed the small orange bottle nestled between a navy sock and a pair of boxers. She pinched it carefully between her thumb and index finger as her flashlight beam caught the label, illuminating the name typed in crisp black letters. Like a spotlight in the darkness, it drew everyone’s attention to the bottle, ensuring this detail would not be missed.

“Holy shit,” Alastair swore.

“If you didn’t kill Ian McCloud,” Simone said in a smug voice, “then what are his antianxiety pills doing in your suitcase?”

Jade felt dizzy as she watched the color drain from Bennett’s face.

“I didn’t—I don’t know how those got in there,” Bennett stammered, terrified.

“I do,” said Simone, placing the pills on the desk, inches from Bennett’s bound hands. “Now, I’m no Detective Griggs, but let me see if I can lay this out.”

She began to pace in front of Bennett’s chair, looking impressively poised. “You knew Ian took alprazolam for his anxiety, along with his other medications. You also knew about his drinking habit. So, after he stumbled up here drunk, you put him to bed and laid out his regular dose of each medication. I saw the six pills on the nightstand Friday night when I was in there, just as you intended. After our fight, Ian used his room key to lock the door, just as you knew he would. That’s why you left it in there. But then, later that night, after the power went out, you used the spare key to sneak back into his room and replace the other pills with alprazolam.”

She stopped pacing and glared at him. “He was far too drunk and riled up to notice the difference when he swallowed all six pills. Three times his regular dose. Enough to kill him? Combined with all the alcohol? Maybe. But you couldn’t take that chance. So you convinced him to go down to the hot springs. You probably even walked him there yourself. What did you tell him? That a soak would do him good? Relax his nerves, get his mind off our fight? You knew that with all that alprazolam in his system, he’d get very, very sleepy.”

Jade could not stop staring at that bottle, with Ian McCloud’s name clearly printed on the label. Why hadn’t she and Isabel found it when they were in here earlier? Isabel had been the one to search the closet. Perhaps she’d missed it.

“And you made sure his robe and slippers were nearby,” Isabel added. “With the key to his room. To create the illusion that his death was an accidental drowning.”

“No.” Bennett gritted his teeth. “You’re wrong.”

Simone leaned on the armrests of his chair, her gaze locked on his. “Tell me, was the head wound part of your plan? Another red herring to keep us chasing our tails? Did you have to bash him in the skull yourself? Or did he do that on his own, when he could barely stand up?”

Bennett rolled his eyes. “Your little theory has one very glaring hole, detectives.” He spat the word. “Any tox report would reveal the elevated amount of alprazolam in his system. If I killed him, why would I keep the pills?”

“As an insurance policy,” said Isabel confidently. “So you could plant them on someone else, right before the police showed up.”

Simone gasped. “Is that why you pretended to be on my side? Were you going to frame me?”

“No.” Bennett shook his head adamantly. “Someone planted those pills in here. Someone is trying to frame me.”

“He’s right.” A footboard creaked behind Jade and she spun to find Darius standing in the doorway wearing ripped pants with only one leg. “Bennett didn’t kill Ian McCloud. But someone really wants us to believe that he did.”

Chapter Sixty

Darius swaggered into the room like a movie star on a red carpet. He’d never swaggered in his life. Now he wondered why. It was hands down the best way to enter a room.

“I’m afraid you’ve all been duped by a master manipulator,” he announced.

“Darius, stay out of this,” Simone snapped. “You’re not in charge of this investigation anymore. I am.”

“I thought I was in charge,” Isabel said with a scowl.

“I don’t think any of us have ever been in charge of this investigation, darlin’,” Darius said cooly, with the hint of a drawl he’d never heard come out of his mouth before. “We’ve all just been pawns in a game. And this”—he gestured grandly around the room—“our elegant chessboard.”

“Darius,” Isabel warned.

“But all that stops now.” His tone grew dark and gravelly. This was his moment. And he was nailing it. “It’s time to put an end to this charade once and for all and beat the game maker at her own game. Sever our literary chains and break free from this mind prison.”

“What is he talking about?” Jade whispered to Isabel.

She shook her head. “I don’t think we want to know.”

“Oh, but you do.” Darius whipped around and pointed at her with an outstretched finger. It would have been more dramatic with a fancy walking stick. Damn, he wished he had a fancy walking stick. “You see, you’re about to witness history in the making. For the first time, the puppet has become the master. The pawn has become the player. And the character has become the writer.” He paused and glanced up at the ceiling, wagging his finger like he was scolding a naughty child. “You think you’re so clever! Trying to kill me off. Leading Isabel down your carefully plotted trail like a bloodhound chasing a scent. But I’m on to you.”

“Darius, what are you doing?” Isabel asked shortly.

He swept his gaze dramatically around the room. “I’m here to reveal the truth.”

“We already did that,” said Simone in exasperation. “Bennett is the murderer! He stole Evelyn’s manuscript and tried to pass it off as his own, but Ian found out so Bennett killed him. Then he killed Marjorie to cover his tracks and tried to kill Evelyn too.”

“Lies!” Darius thrust his finger at Simone. “Manipulations! Fabrications! Misdirections!”

“Exactly!” said Bennett.

“We found the murder weapon!” Isabel motioned to the pills on the desk. “It was hidden in his suitcase! Bennett gave Ian two extra doses of alprazolam and then led him to the hot springs, where he passed out and drowned.”

Darius snatched up the bottle and scanned the label. “Exactly as I suspected. Extended-release formula.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Simone asked no one in particular.

“I’m glad you asked,” said Darius, straightening up. He could barely feel the twinge of pain in his rib cage. The adrenaline of the moment was like an anesthetic. “You see, the writer wanted us to believe that Bennett was the killer.”

“Bloody hell, not this again,” Alastair muttered.

“Let the man speak.” Bennett leaned back in his chair.

“Everything that’s happened so far has been designed to lead us to Bennett,” Darius went on. “The destroyed laptop. The stolen manuscript. Evelyn’s body. And finally, this pill bottle in his suitcase.” He set it on the desk with a showstopping clank. “Stealing another writer’s work and trying to cover it up is a tempting motive to be sure. But it’s not the motive.”

“How on earth could you know that?” Alastair threw up his hands.

“Because this is a plot,” Darius said. “And I’m a plotter!”

“Right now, you look more like a pantser to me,” Alastair grumbled, nodding at Darius’s ripped trousers.

“All signs pointed to Bennett. Like giant arrows painted across the sky.” Darius turned to Simone. “Let me guess, you learned about the stolen manuscript during the search?”

Simone crossed her arms. “Yeah, so?”

“Some clue happened to appear while you were looking for Marjorie,” Darius added.

“It was Evelyn’s locket,” Simone said defensively. “It had an email in it. A rejection letter from Ian. But then I remembered having dinner with Ian the night he’d assigned Bennett to read entries for a writing competition he was judging.”

“Interesting,” said Darius. “So you would be the only person who could put those pieces together. The only one with that specific flashback in your memory.”

Simone’s arms fell. “I guess so.”

“How fitting, then, that you would be the one to find the locket.” Darius turned back to the group. “Don’t you see? She wanted you all to suspect Bennett. She wrote it that way.”

“For the last time, this isn’t a mystery novel!” Isabel exploded. “This is real life and there’s a real murderer and it’s Bennett! He stole the spare key to McCloud’s room Friday night. It has to be him. He was the only one with access to that room the night McCloud was murdered.”

Darius felt all eyes on him, including the writer’s. She was watching him from her lofty perch, fists clenched as his words appeared on the page, out of her control, collapsing her precious narrative like a house of cards in a gust of wind. He was that gust of wind. He was a fucking hurricane!

He let his smile unfurl slowly. “That’s not exactly true.”

Isabel’s stomach was in knots. Darius was acting even stranger than before. Spouting utter nonsense. Flinging his arms around like an overcaffeinated orchestra conductor. And when the hell did he start talking like a 1950s private eye?

“You see,” Darius continued, pushing his shoulders back, “when I first realized we were in a mystery novel, I concluded that it was of the isolated setting subgenre.”

“Aaaaand here we go again,” Alastair muttered.

But Darius barely seemed to hear him. “The story had all the tropes of an isolated setting. Remote location, no outside communication, inescapable environment, and so on. However, it has recently come to my attention that my earlier analysis was flawed.”

He pulled a copy of The Bestseller Formula from his waistband and flipped to a marked page. “Would you do the honor of reading the highlighted passage?” He passed the book to Jade.

She swallowed and glanced uncertainly at the others before reading, “ ‘When choosing a subgenre for your mystery novel, remember you don’t have to choose just one.’ ”

“It’s a blend,” Darius whispered theatrically.

When no one reacted, he went on. “It’s not only an isolated setting. It’s also a locked room. And in every locked room mystery there is a very important element that must be included.” He arched a single brow. “A locked room.”

“Had to dig deep for that one, did you?” asked Alastair with a snort.

Darius ignored him and gestured to the hallway. “If you would be so kind as to indulge me?”

They all stared blankly back at him.

He huffed. “Follow me to the locked room.”

Begrudgingly, everyone stepped into the hallway behind Darius. Or rather, everyone except Bennett, who was still tied up. He scraped his chair across the floor to get a better view.

Darius stopped in front of the closed door of room 307. “Behold! The victim’s hotel room. Locked from the inside.” He swung the door open wide and then, in his normal voice, added, “At least it was on the night of the murder.”

He cleared his throat and resumed his dramatic flair. “The second essential element of a locked room mystery is a defined set of keys or access points. Jade told us there were only two keys to each of the rooms: the guest’s copy and the spare, which was locked up in a cabinet in the office.”

“Yes, which Bennett stole,” Isabel added impatiently.

He nodded. “Exactly. The second element is important because it convinces the detective—and the reader—that the only way in or out of the room is with a key. At least at first…”

“Can we please do without the theatrics?” Isabel asked.

“No,” he said simply before motioning everyone inside. There were more scraping sounds from across the hall as Bennett struggled to keep them in his eyeline.

Ian McCloud’s room looked nearly identical to the last time Isabel was here, when she and Darius had discovered the missing laptop and the champagne bottle with the bloody thumbprint. The only thing that was different was the balcony door, which was now wide open.

Isabel’s stomach clenched tighter.

“Observe!” Darius said, walking to the balcony. He glided the door open and closed like a salesman trying to sell the concept of a sliding glass door. “A popular twist of the locked room mystery: the concealed entrance!”

“It doesn’t look very concealed to me.” Alastair snickered.

“The door itself might be evident,” Darius clarified, “but the mode of accessing it is not.”

He stepped onto the balcony without a flicker of hesitation. Apparently, his fear of heights really was gone. Everyone drew in a collective breath as he climbed over the iron railing, his body silhouetted against the night sky.

“Darius, don’t!” Isabel lunged forward, her heart racing as he balanced on the ledge.

Then, he gripped the railing, stepped sideways—and disappeared.

“No!” Isabel’s cry pierced the air. She rushed to the railing and peered over, straining to see the ground three floors below, but it was lost in shadow.

“Where did he go?” Simone asked as they all crowded onto the balcony.

“Oh god,” Jade moaned. “Is he dead too?”

“It’s only three floors,” said Simone. “I doubt it would kill him.”

“What happened?” Bennett called from across the hall. “Did he fall?”

“I didn’t hear a splat,” said Alastair.

“That’s because I never touched the ground,” came a voice behind them as Darius strolled back in from the hallway.

Isabel fought the urge to slap him. “What the hell was that?”

“A demonstration. Rooms 307 and 309 share a corner of the building,” Darius explained. “Due to the monastery’s design, the corners are reinforced with stone brackets—perfect footholds for climbing between balconies. I noticed them when I was stranded on the mountain road, after the writer tried to kill me. You can’t see them from either room. Even from outside, you have to look at just the right angle to observe how close together the balconies are. Merely a step apart.”

The group stood silent, gazes shifting between Darius and the balcony door.

“I think the writer chose this location because of those brackets. The distinct medieval design of this monastery—unique to the area—offered a perfect concealed entrance to the victim’s room.”

Isabel balled her fists. “Darius, there is no—”

“Room 309 was vacant,” Darius went on, ignoring her. “Conveniently assigned to Molly Kent, a guest speaker who never arrived. And as Jade mentioned, all rooms remained unlocked until their occupants checked in. Which means anyone could access room 309, step across the ledge, and enter the victim’s room whenever they pleased.”

“All right,” said Alastair, raising his hands. “I’ll grant you the ledge. But how do we know McCloud’s sliding door was unlocked?”

Darius strode back to the balcony and retrieved a small wooden dowel from the ground. “Because of this. I found it near the door. It must have been jammed into the lock, preventing it from latching. There was a pile of these in the toolbox Alastair used to repair his car. The toolbox is kept in the utility room, where anyone could have found it.”

Everyone stared in shock at the tiny object in his hand.

“What is it?” Bennett called from across the hall, but they were all too stunned to answer.

“Allow me to reconstruct the scene,” Darius said after a self-important sniff. “On Friday night, after everyone went to sleep, the killer accessed McCloud’s room using the balcony door. They’d already jammed the lock earlier, so they knew they could get in. Simone said she saw the regular doses of McCloud’s pills on the nightstand. But when Isabel and I searched his room the next day, we found no pills. The obvious explanation was that the killer swapped the pills for a deadly dose of alprazolam and the victim swallowed them all, right?”

“Yes!” Simone said, exasperated. “Bennett overdosed him.”

“No, I didn’t!” Bennett shouted from across the hall.

“Obvious, but not true,” Darius clarified. “McCloud couldn’t have overdosed on alprazolam because he didn’t have any in his system the night he died.”

“And you know this how?” Alastair challenged. “Because you’ve got a forensic toxicology kit stashed in your…” He glanced at Darius’s missing pant leg. “One pocket.”

“I don’t need one,” said Darius. “It would be impossible for a tox report to turn up alprazolam when he didn’t take any.”

“You probably should start making some sense now,” Isabel prompted.

“Gladly.” Darius gestured for them to follow him again. They reluctantly trudged back into the hall and through the adjacent door. Room 309 was vacant apart from one thing.

“What is this room service cart doing in here?” Alastair asked, stepping around the bulky contraption.

“I had to put it in here after the power outage,” Jade rushed to explain. “Because the elevator didn’t work.”

“This is the cart I found in the hallway when I came to Ian’s room on Friday night!” Simone exclaimed. “It had a bottle of champagne on it.”

“Precisely,” said Darius. “McCloud brought the bottle into his room after you left. The killer waited outside on the balcony until McCloud went to the bathroom, then slipped through the sliding door and poisoned the champagne that had already been opened by the victim. It would need to be a slow-acting toxin that wouldn’t fully take effect until McCloud was at the hot springs. Aconite would be my guess, given how difficult it is to detect in standard toxicology tests.”

“Isn’t that what the killer used in A Convenient Suicide?” asked Simone.

Darius pointed at her. “Very good. Poetic justice perhaps. Using his own plot against him. Aconite causes respiratory paralysis, something McCloud wouldn’t have noticed until he was submerged in the water and it was too late. It’s also fittingly called monkshood. Quite symbolic given the setting of our little tale, don’t you agree?” He gestured at the monastery walls and captured Isabel’s gaze for long enough to send a chill through her. “A detail only a writer could dream up.”

Silence fell over the group. They continued to stare incredulously at Darius, waiting for him to continue. He milked the moment for all it was worth.

“After McCloud left for his fatal soak, the killer snuck back into his room, swiped the bottle of alprazolam from his bathroom, and snatched the six pills from the nightstand. They left the bottle of champagne behind because it had Jade’s bloody thumbprint on it, creating a nice red herring. Once back inside this room, they flushed the pills down the toilet and then—”

“Wait a minute!” said Isabel with sudden realization. “I know what you’re doing. You’re playing detective again. This is the reconstruction scene, isn’t it?”

“The what?” asked Alastair.

“From The Bestseller Formula,” she explained. “It comes at the end of Step 10.”

“At least, it’s supposed to,” said Darius with a smug wink. He snatched the book back from Jade and flipped to another marked page. “ ‘In a locked room mystery, the detective should not discover the concealed entrance until Step 10, the Spark in the Dark, after they have gone through the all-important Step 9, the Spiral of Despair. Only then, in the pit of their darkness, do they realize that the suspect accused in Step 8, Danger Descends, was nothing but a final red herring.’ ”

He clapped the book shut and pointed to the man tied up in the chair across the hall. “I give you your final red herring.”

“Yes!” cried Bennett.

“No!” shouted Simone.

“This is your big new plan to sabotage the writer?” Isabel asked.

“It’s working!” Darius said defensively. “The final red herring isn’t supposed to be revealed until Step 10, but we’re still in Step 8. I’m two steps ahead! I’m foiling the whole plot!”

“Can someone please explain to me what he’s talking about?” asked Alastair.

Isabel turned to him. “The final red herring is one of the biggest twists of a mystery novel. According to Jenna Blake, it shouldn’t be revealed until Step 10, after the detective has gone through the Spiral of Despair, where he loses all hope and doubts everything he knows. Because only then can he see things with fresh eyes. Darius is revealing the twist early.”

“Too early,” Darius clarified. “Which completely destroys the pacing!”

She turned back to him. “Yes, if this were a novel, with pacing and steps and red herrings.”

“It is!” Darius insisted. “The writer set it up perfectly. The locked room with seemingly only one door. The stolen key that points to Bennett. The concealed entrance. The flushed pills—”

“Hold up,” said Simone. “How do you know the pills were flushed?”

“Aha!” said Darius, as though he had been hoping someone might ask this question. He walked slowly and purposefully into the bathroom, the others crowding close behind. With a coy raise of his eyebrows, he lifted the lid of the toilet and aimed his flashlight inside.

Isabel sucked in a sharp breath as the beam illuminated two white objects nestled at the bottom of the bowl, nearly invisible against the sparkling white porcelain.

“I think the word you’re looking for,” said Darius, “is Bullseye.”

Chapter Sixty-One

Bennett was delirious with relief. Who would have guessed the crazy YouTube stalker with one pant leg would be his salvation? That was a plot twist he hadn’t seen coming.

The group had returned to Bennett’s room and Darius now stood in front of him with two pills in his outstretched palm. Even with their partially dissolved edges, the distinctive hexagon shape was undeniable.

“Yes!” Bennett cried. “Those are the alprazolam! I’d recognize them anywhere!”

Darius grabbed the pill bottle from the desk and shook two more pills into his other hand. He held them side by side. There was no doubt all four pills had come from the same bottle.

“See?” said Bennett. “I couldn’t have killed him. Now will you please untie me?”

“Not a chance!” Simone snapped. “This doesn’t prove a thing!”

“Are you kidding?” said Darius. “It proves everything.”

He glanced at the others, clearly expecting them to get it. They didn’t. Bennett felt the urge to explain it but he didn’t have to. He had his new best friend, Darius Walker, to do that.

“Someone is trying to frame Bennett for McCloud’s murder,” Darius began, placing the two sets of pills on the desk. “Bennett put out these two alprazolam pills for McCloud along with the regular doses of his other meds, just as he said.”

“And I didn’t touch them after that!” Bennett was compelled to add.

“Someone snatched those pills and tried to flush them in the empty guest room,” Darius went on. “But with the power out, the water pressure was too weak, barely able to create a full siphon. The monastery’s water supply runs on a well with an electric pump. I saw it in the utility room. The toilets will flush with gravity alone, but you won’t get a lot of pressure. At least not enough to dispose of the pills. So they’ve been sitting at the bottom of the bowl for almost forty-eight hours. The other meds dissolved fully, but the alprazolam is extended-release, designed to dissolve over hours, and the water in the toilet was cold, slowing the process even more.”

“Fuck, this kid’s good,” said Bennett.

Simone glared at him, but he simply stretched out his legs and relaxed, wishing he had some popcorn. This was the best show he’d seen in a while.

“But the person who tried to flush them,” Darius continued, “didn’t know that. They thought the pills were gone. So sometime between then and now, they planted the prescription bottle in Bennett’s suitcase, knowing we would find it and conclude that Bennett had used the stolen spare key to kill McCloud with an overdose of alprazolam.”

“Which clearly I couldn’t have done,” concluded Bennett with a smirk. He’d give the guy a hand if his weren’t tied up.

“Exactly,” said Darius, beaming as if this were his life-altering moment and those little white pills the defining discovery of his career. “This negates everything. The entire case against Bennett falls apart because of that balcony door and these pills.”

Darius had felt triumph before. An A on a report card. A YouTube video that broke his previous view count record. Solving the mystery before his favorite detective character unveiled the final clue. But all those accomplishments paled in comparison to this.

This was his ultimate victory. His ultimate win. This was a triumph over his own creator.

He felt the urge to take a bow. Until he glanced out at his audience and saw nothing but blank stares.

“I don’t understand,” Simone said. “If Bennett was framed, then who framed him? Who is climbing onto balconies and jamming locks and poisoning champagne? If Bennett isn’t the real killer, then who is?”

“Don’t you see, it doesn’t matter!” said Darius. “There is no ‘real killer.’ There’s only the character the writer planned to reveal as the killer. But if the novel ends here, at Step 8, then she never gets the chance to write them into the story. They don’t exist. They remain a figment of her imagination, a bullet point on her outline. The killer never gets a chance to manifest on the page.”

“Ah, I see,” said Alastair condescendingly. “It doesn’t ‘matter’ because you don’t know who the killer is.”

“I don’t care who it is!” cried Darius. “All I care about is beating the writer at her own game, stopping her from finishing the book, and I’ve done that. I’ve won.”

“Or,” said Alastair, “you’re crazy. No one is framing anyone and Bennett is lying to us all.”

“No, I think Darius is right,” said Bennett.

“Surprise, surprise,” muttered Simone.

“Someone definitely planted that bottle in my suitcase and flushed those pills,” Bennett resolved. “And we have to figure out who it is.”

“I know who it is!” Darius said, exasperated. “It’s the writer.”

Alastair scoffed. “The writer is walking around flushing toilets?”

“Of course not.” Darius rolled his eyes. “She’s just writing those details into the plot, following the steps of the formula. But I sabotaged the writer’s plan.”

“Maybe,” said Jade in a quiet voice, “all you sabotaged was the killer’s plan.”

“What?” Darius spun toward her, swaying slightly on his feet from the sudden motion.

“If someone here wanted to get away with murder,” said Jade, brow furrowed in concentration, “why wouldn’t they try to frame someone else?”

Darius blinked rapidly, trying to focus. A thick fog was settling over his mind again, slowing his thoughts. “No,” he said, but there was a quaver in his voice. A flicker of uncertainty that he quickly extinguished. “No! The killer can’t have a plan because they don’t exist. The only plan is the writer’s and I foiled it.”

Isabel rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. He flinched at her touch. “Darius, I know it’s scary but I think you have to consider the option that this is real. It’s not a mystery novel. It’s not fiction. McCloud and Marjorie are really dead because someone here killed them.”

Her words landed with the finality of an executioner’s blade.

Still, Darius refused to believe it. It had to be fiction. But his vision was swimming and his thoughts blurred. He shook his head. “No. She’s out there. She’s real. We’re not. But I know her. I know how she writes. How she plots. We’re connected in this strange way I can’t explain. I know in my gut this is not what she intended. This is not the way it was supposed to happen. I ruined the plot. She’ll be stuck in Step 8 forever. She’ll never be able to move on. It’s over. It’s all over.”

He peered out at the others, searching for a believer. But only Isabel would meet his gaze and in her eyes he saw nothing but pity. “Then why are we still here?”

Step 9

“The Spiral of Despair”

Chapter Sixty-Two

Numbness.

Darkness.

Emptiness.

It’s over. It’s all over. I can’t believe I let this happen. How could I be so stupid? I knew the monastery ran on an electric pump. I researched the hell out of this setting. I knew and yet I didn’t think it through. I never realized the pills wouldn’t flush after the power outage.

It’s an amateur plot flaw and it’s going to cost me the whole book. Where am I supposed to go from here? Bennett was the entire crux of my plan.

I don’t give a damn if he didn’t really kill anyone. He’s a bastard and he deserves to be in prison for the rest of his life for what he did. Stealing a woman’s dream? Taking credit for her work? The scum.

Besides, you saw what he did to Simone. He tried to kill her. He is a murderer. He just hasn’t had a chance to prove it yet. He’s a murderer waiting to happen. And he was supposed to walk out of here in handcuffs.

But now what? He’ll just walk out? He’ll pay some meager damages in civil court and go free? He’s an attractive middle-aged white man. Of course he’ll walk away from this unscathed. Fuck, he’ll probably sell his story for millions and hit the bestseller list. He’ll go on all the talk shows, lamenting about the life lessons he’s learned, the good, hard look he took at his life, and the changes he decided to make.

God, I’m so sick of entitled pricks like Bennett Hartley capitalizing on the hard work of others. Exploiting the old and the weak and the voiceless. Stealing art that doesn’t belong to them. Putting their name on words as if they had every right to them.

I was going to do something about it. I may not be able to change the world or cure all of society’s injustices, but I was going to use my limited power as a writer to make sure one of them paid.

Now that chance is gone.

Ruined.

By Darius Walker, of all people.

I thought he would support me. I thought his knowledge of mystery novels would be an asset, not a liability. I invited him here to help me take down the bad guys, deliver justice, but all he’s done is stand in my way.

If only he could understand what I’ve been doing here—why I needed this isolated setting, this locked room, this specific cast of unreliable narrators, then maybe he’d stop trying so hard to sabotage me.

But it’s too late for that now.

The bad guys have won. Just like they always do.

And I’m done trying to save the world.

I’m just done.

Chapter Sixty-Three

Evelyn’s room was dark save for a sliver of moonlight that sliced across the floor like a freshly sharpened blade. Jade’s eyes were bloodshot and stinging from lack of sleep, but she hadn’t dared to close them. For the past hour, she’d done nothing but stare intently at the old woman lying in the bed, her faithful cat nestled beside her with a pained expression that mirrored Jade’s own.

Every thirty seconds, Jade switched on her flashlight to check that Evelyn was still breathing. Her fluttering eyelids made it look like she was simply sleeping. If not for the blood seeping through the bandage wrapped around her head, Jade might have convinced herself she was.

“Who would do something like this?” she whispered aloud, out of habit. But there was no response. A profound silence had spread through Jade’s mind ever since she’d told Isabel the truth about her sister. It was a quiet unlike anything she’d experienced in two years.

She clutched the faded black T-shirt in her lap. Jasmine’s favorite. The one she died in.

Jade could still remember the day Jasmine found it in a vintage clothing store. Oh my god! I have to get this. Look, Jadey! Twisted Sister! Jasmine thought it was hilarious. Jade thought it was too on the nose.

“Jasmine?” she whispered into the darkness, squeezing the fabric in her hands. Had her sister really left this time? Chased back across the veil by the simple acknowledgment of her existence? Or was this just another one of Jasmine’s clever tricks?

Jade flicked the flashlight back on, illuminating Evelyn’s pale, papery face. “What kind of monster attacks an old woman?” She aimed the flashlight at Dexter, but he looked as lost as Jade felt.

She thought about Bennett, untied but locked up in his room down the hall, banging on the door, demanding to be released. Despite Darius proving his innocence, they’d all agreed it was best to keep him confined. Just until Evelyn woke up and could confirm that he didn’t do this to her.

For the past hour, Jade had been racking her brain, trying to make sense of it all. She’d been so certain Simone and Isabel had solved the case. Bennett was the killer. He murdered McCloud, then Marjorie, before turning his sights on Evelyn to protect his book deal. He had the motive and the opportunity and the murder weapon in his room. If this were a game of Clue, it would be over. Bennett in the bedroom with the antianxiety pills.

But it was far from over.

And Jade couldn’t stop thinking about those pills. If Darius was right and someone had planted them in Bennett’s suitcase to frame him, who was it? Who was the murderer?

Jade stroked Dexter’s silky gray fur as she switched on the flashlight once again, revealing the dark stains seeped into Evelyn’s bandage.

“What if she doesn’t wake up?” she asked, more to herself than the cat. Because she had a feeling they both already knew the answer. Understood the stakes.

If Evelyn didn’t open her eyes, they might never know what happened in those woods.

I reach for the folder marked Jade Brooks, aka Jade Palmer, and nostalgically flip through the pages, remembering all the hard work I put into researching her character and uncovering what really happened to her sister. Death tends to change people. It darkens them. I should know.

I guess now you’ll never find out what final plans I had in store for Jade. For any of them. I take one last parting look at her folder and dump it into the trash.

The bin is already overflowing with index cards, timelines, outlines, and character profiles. Pages and pages of notes and brainstorms. Deep explorations into my characters’ innermost thoughts and darkest secrets.

I don’t need any of it anymore.

I close the desk drawer and yank open the next one.

Oh, look. Here’s all my research on the inner workings of phone systems and electrical panels. And the notes I took on how to trigger a landslide with explosives. As a mystery writer you become an expert on a lot of random shit.

Trash.

Here’s my list of possible settings for the story. Months of researching chalets in the mountains, isolated cabins in the woods, remote islands cut off from the mainland. I eventually chose the Monastery of the Shrouded Vale because of its grim history, unique architecture, and abundant hiding places.

Trash.

And what’s this? Oh, right. It’s my inventory of all the flash drives. I spent weeks working on this, tracking their locations, their presumed contents, their actual contents, cataloging who had which one last. It was quite the puzzle. The best one still hasn’t even been revealed. I was waiting until the very end. Because, you know, save the best for last and all that crap.

Trash.

I open the next drawer and pause. A wave of sadness washes over me as I pull out a faded piece of notebook paper covered in my scribbles of inspiration.

A dark forest, tinged with the scent of rain and pine needles. The trees slicing sharp, bladelike shadows across the ground. The distant hoot of an owl who has witnessed something unspeakable.

The whole story started with this little scrap of paper. This seed of an idea.

I spent months brainstorming ways to kill Ian McCloud. I thought of everything from a heart attack to a wildlife attack before finally settling on what I thought was the simplest and most elegant: an apparent drowning.

This was my dream of doing something meaningful and important. Of making a contribution to the world—maybe even making it a better place.

Now it all goes in the trash. Along with the rest of my unfinished business and unfulfilled dreams.

Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s a story as old as time. It’s been happening since writers first started etching stories onto clay tablets. You start out with the very best intentions, the best plan, but in the end, your characters betray you, the story takes on a life of its own, and you become as obsolete as the crumpled-up outlines in your trash can.

On second thought, you can feel sorry for me if you want.

Chapter Sixty-Four

Darius drained the last of the dark liquid from his glass and reached for the bottle. He uncorked it with his teeth and filled his tumbler past the rim, licking up the spilled drops from the table like a thirsty dog.

“This is a cliché if I ever saw one,” Isabel said as she entered the lounge.

“Well,” Darius said, before slurping from the top of his glass, “Hemingway always said, ‘Write drunk, edit sober.’ ” He glanced around at the frames on the wall, illuminated by the candles that filled the room. “Why isn’t that little inspirational nugget hanging up somewhere?”

“Probably because Hemingway never said it. It’s a commonly misattributed quote.”

“Misattributed,” Darius slurred. “Good word.”

Isabel approached the booth where Darius was hunched over his glass, his marked-up copy of The Bestseller Formula discarded on the table, now stained with booze. “Do I even need to ask?”

“Probably not,” he muttered. “This just seemed like as good a place as any to wait.”

“Wait for…?”

“For the writer to give up, of course.”

“Of course.” Isabel nodded. “Just checking.”

“Any minute now.” He took a sip of his drink. The alcohol was numbing everything, including the throbbing of his bruised ribs.

“So, is the room going to, like, dissolve around us? Or are we simply going to fall asleep and wake up somewhere else? Or! Do we dissolve into nothing? Like letters backspaced off the page?”

Darius glared at her. “You’re mocking me.”

“No, I’m humoring you. There’s a difference.”

“I’m not laughing.”

Isabel cleared her throat. “Sorry.” She grabbed a glass from the bar cart and slid into the booth next to Darius. “What are we drinking?”

“Brown stuff.” He took another slurp. “It’s delicious.”

Isabel poured herself a large glass and sniffed it. “Whoa. That’s straight bourbon.”

“Just like Detective Griggs drinks.” He rested his cheek on the table. It was cool against his skin.

“What’s with your obsession with him anyway? Is it just that he solves crimes or is there more to it?”

“He finds the truth. He’s able to look past the bullshit and see people for who they really are. Not the frauds they pretend to be.” The words came out angrier than Darius had intended. He blamed the bourbon. “I just don’t get it. She should have given up by now. Why are we still here?”

“Maybe she did give up?” Isabel glanced around the lounge, as if seeing it with new eyes. “Maybe this is some kind of literary limbo where characters go after the writer stops writing them.”

“Is this you humoring me again?”

She grinned. “Yes.”

Isabel picked up The Bestseller Formula and thumbed through it. “What if you’re looking at this all wrong?”

He lifted his head. “Please don’t tell me again that there’s no writer and I made it all up in my head because I haven’t slept and my brain is fried and I’m too terrified to face reality so I created a delusion to protect myself from the truth.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” She closed the book and took a long sip of her drink.

God, her mouth is beautiful.

“Look,” she went on, “we both know there are too many overlaps with this book to be ignored. Is it because the killer is using the formula to try to get away with murder? Or because we’re characters in a novel that someone is dreaming up in some cozy writing nook in the woods somewhere? I don’t know.”

Darius started to argue but Isabel shoved a finger against his lips. “I’m not done.”

He suddenly wanted to close his eyes and feel nothing but her skin.

“I’m just saying,” she continued, “maybe it doesn’t matter. Because either way, it means the story isn’t over.”

Darius banged his head repeatedly against the table. Perhaps if he hit it hard enough, he’d pass out and wake up in a different novel. A nice rom-com set in a small, sleepy town where the guy gets the girl and they ride off into the sunset together.

“Stop!” Isabel grabbed him by the temples and pulled him back up. “This is a good thing.”

“How?”

“Because it’s knowledge, and knowledge is always power.”

“Is that a line from your young adult fantasy novel?”

She ignored him and opened the book to the table of contents. “Look. We’re close.”

“To what?”

“To the end! To getting out! There’s only three steps left. If we can get to Step 10, the Spark in the Dark, and figure out who the real killer is, then that will take us to Step 11, Storming the Killer’s Lair, then there’s just Step 12, the Aftermath, and we’re free!”

The bourbon was moving through Darius like thick molasses, muffling his senses and slowing his thoughts. “So you’re assuming we’re already in Step 9?”

“Hello? Look around you!” She gestured wildly with her glass, sloshing liquid over the rim. “Two characters drinking woefully at a bar? It’s a classic Spiral of Despair scene! Step 9 is the emotional rock bottom, when the detective reaches a dead end, doubts everything they know, and falls into a pit of hopelessness. Look at you! You’re a walking bag of hopelessness! All we’re missing is the rain. Isn’t that what the book says? That there’s always rain and alcohol involved?”

“I said there’s usually rain and alcohol involved.”

Isabel paused, the glass halfway to her lips. The bourbon had slowed Darius’s reflexes to a crawl. Which is why it took him far too long to realize his mistake. Yet somehow Isabel’s senses were still as sharp as the crisscrossing blades of her tattoo.

“Did you just say—?”

“No,” he cut her off.

“You did. You said I.”

“I’m drunk and sleep-deprived. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

But the gears were already turning in her mind. “Oh my god.” Her hand went to her mouth. “How did I not see it before?”

“Because there’s nothing to see!” Darius said desperately. Too desperately. He was making it worse. That fucking bourbon!

“You know it better than anyone. It’s how you recognized the pattern in the first place.”

“I recognized the pattern because I’ve read the book a thousand times.” His face was getting hot. Could she see his face getting hot?

“You…” Isabel’s gaze bounced between him and the book, those damn gears still turning.

He gritted his teeth, as if that could stop this boulder from rolling down this hill.

“You are Jenna Blake.” Her eyes locked on his, the truth spilling across her face like dark liquid overflowing from a glass. “You wrote The Bestseller Formula.”

I freeze in my tracks. My whole body goes numb. What did she just say?

That can’t be. I would have known. If Darius Walker was secretly the author of a bestselling plotting guide, I would know.

Did I know?

I desperately claw through the trash, unearthing piles of notes and brainstorms, frantically flipping through pages, until I find his character profile.

My gaze hungrily scans the text, searching for any signs I might have missed.

Age 28

Strong chin inherited from his grandfather

Obsessed with mystery novels

Runs an Ian McCloud fan channel where he analyzes the plots of his favorite books

Son of Claudia Walker, CEO of a groundbreaking cybersecurity company

Deeply rooted fear of failure stemming from a controlling, perfectionist mother who put intense pressure on Darius to succeed

There’s absolutely nothing in here about a damn plotting book!

I sink into my chair, the pages in my hand fluttering to the ground like softly falling snow.

How could I not know? I swore I knew everything about my characters. I researched them for months. I dug into their pasts. I excavated their secrets.

But apparently not all of them.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. There’s always one thing your main character never tells you. One deep, dark secret you don’t discover until you’re knee-deep into the story and it’s too late to fix. Most of the time, you can spin it to work in your favor. But not always.

No wonder my story fell apart. No wonder Darius thwarted my plot. He literally wrote the book on plot. The very one I used to write this novel! My story has been doomed from the start. A sinking ship from the very first page.

It took one second for Darius’s mind to sharpen. Another for him to feel almost sober. It took Isabel those same two seconds to scramble out of the booth.

“Holy shit!” She staggered, pointing a trembling finger at Darius, looking like she wanted to roundhouse kick him right off his seat. “You’re the killer!”

The blood drained from his face. “What? No!”

“But you know all the steps. You wrote them. You kept saying there was a writer behind all of this, and it was true. You are the writer!”

The words did feel like a roundhouse kick. Right to the gut. He dropped his gaze so she wouldn’t see the pain in his eyes. “If only that were true.”

Isabel hesitated, clearly caught off guard. “What, you want to be a killer?”

“I want to be a writer.”

“I thought you were a writer.”

“No, I’m a fucking fraud!” he cried before swallowing the rest of his drink in one bitter gulp. “Do you want to know why I published The Bestseller Formula under a pen name? Because when you’ve written the book on mystery novels, the last thing you want the world to know is that you’ve never actually written a mystery novel.”

Isabel studied him for a long time, her guard slowly lowering.

“The Bestseller Formula started out as a way to get past my writer’s block,” he explained. “I thought if I analyzed enough mystery novels, I could create a blueprint to follow. Then I’d finally be able to finish something. But it didn’t work. I found the formula, all right. Twelve steps that appear over and over in almost every mystery novel. But I still couldn’t finish my own.”

He sighed and stared into his empty glass. God, how he wanted another drink. Was this how writers became alcoholics? The sharp edges of their own failures too jagged to navigate sober?

“Oh my god!” Isabel cried, sliding back into the booth. “It’s your arc!”

“What?” To be honest, he’d expected more sympathy after such a sob story, but she looked ready to pull a red editor’s pen from behind her ear and get to work.

“Your character arc. What is it you say in the book? About the main character’s life problem?”

“Clearly you already know,” he muttered, reaching for the bottle, but Isabel grabbed his hand and held it, generating more warmth in his body than ten glasses of bourbon.

“Of course I know. But I wouldn’t be a very good helper character if I didn’t make you say it aloud.” She pumped his hand like she could siphon the information right out of him.

He rolled his eyes and droned, “ ‘Every main character starts out with a life problem. This is the personal obstacle they must overcome by the end in order to complete their character arc.’ ”

Isabel grimaced at his lack of enthusiasm. “Wow, you really should have narrated the audiobook yourself. But see? This is why you’re in the story! This is the personal obstacle you need to overcome by the end!”

“I’m sorry. I don’t buy it. I don’t think anyone would write an entire novel just to help me get over my writer’s block.”

“Right!” she exclaimed. “Because it’s not actually about the writer’s block. That’s just the symptom. Not the cause. It’s about conquering your fear of failure.”

“I’m out of here.” He leapt up, wincing at the stabbing in his rib cage.

He staggered toward the door, but she jumped in front of him, her face alight with inspiration. “You never finished a novel because you were afraid it wouldn’t be any good. You said so yourself: This is about your mother. Remember the story for Echelon magazine that she convinced the editor in chief not to publish?”

“How could I forget?” he muttered.

“She manipulated you into thinking you had no talent. You quit because you were terrified you’d never write anything good enough to prove her wrong. But this is your opportunity to conquer that fear!”

“So, what—you want me to bust out my laptop and write a novel?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait. It’s dead. Too bad.”

“No,” she said. “This novel. The one we’re in right now.”

“You don’t even believe we’re in a novel!” he shouted, causing her to flinch. He rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry. But I don’t want to conquer my fear. I don’t want to be a character in someone else’s story. I just want…”

And that’s when he finally realized it. Why he’d been fighting so hard to sabotage this plot.

“I just want to write my own story.”

The brightness in Isabel’s eyes faded to a warm, sympathetic glow. Like she understood. Like he was finally leaping off the page and into reality for her. Not as a life problem to solve, or a character to transform, but as a man. With real struggles. Real pain. Real desires.

“And you can,” she said softly, urgently. “Whether the writer has given up or there was never a writer to begin with, either way, you have the opportunity to take control of the narrative. For the first time, you can finish the story. So what’s gonna happen next? You’re sitting at the keyboard right now. The cursor is blinking. It’s all up to you. What do you write? What do you do?”

There was no hesitation. No blank space on the page. No block.

He just kissed her.

Lovely. Now they’re kissing. Isn’t that just the icing on the fucking cake? My pathetic life is over, and Darius is about to get laid.

Oh, don’t act so shocked. Of course they’re going to end up in bed together. Whether I planned it or not is irrelevant. Those two had chemistry from the start. I made sure of it. And once you set events like that in motion, it’s hard to reel them back in.

I glare at my laptop screen as they stumble up the stairs to Isabel’s room, as the story—my story—moves on without me. The narrative unfolds all on its own, words cascade out of control, like an avalanche on the page. I watch, seething, as clothes are peeled off, lips search in the darkness, breaths grow heavy and urgent.

Then a roar erupts out of me, primal and destructive. Like a tsunami, my anger washes over everything, suffocating my sadness, extinguishing any and all nostalgia I could ever feel for this book or these characters.

Especially the backstabbing traitor Darius Walker.

I had such big plans for my detective. Of course he was going to conquer his fear. Of course he was going to have an inspiring, powerful character arc. I was going to take him from a cowardly wuss bucket and turn him into the hero I knew he could become. It was a beautiful, perfect plan, and then he betrayed me.

Like Frankenstein, I created a monster and it destroyed everything I love. My ultimate creation became my ultimate undoing.

I scoop up the pages of Darius’s character profile from the floor—all my big plans—and throw them back into the trash where they belong.

But just as I’m about to turn away, turn my back on all of them, something catches my eye and I pause.

It’s a yellow Post-it note that has been stuck to my desk since the day I started this story. I often clutter my office with these notes to remind me of key details while I’m writing.

This one is about Darius. It’s only one word, but it was the only word I needed to remember why he’s so afraid of the world.

Betrayal.

Just as Isabel said, Darius’s arc was always about his mother. How she planted a bitter seed that turned him into the man he is today—a flawed character with a deep emotional wound, still throbbing. Still tender to the touch.

I pluck the note from the trash and stare at that one little word, eight simple letters that slowly start to rearrange themselves into an idea.

Something cold slithers down to the base of my spine. My own bitter seeds taking root, taking hold. This is how darkness is born. This is how villains are made. This is how bad decisions make bad people. I understand that now.

Because in the moment the decision is staring you in the face, dangling in front of you like forbidden fruit, it doesn’t feel bad. It feels so damn good.

Chapter Sixty-Five

Darius awoke to the sound of a door clicking closed. A headache sat heavy on his brain like a violent storm, but he’d slept. He’d finally slept! Despite the hangover, the world felt clearer, crisp around the edges. The fog that had been hovering around his brain for the last two days was gone.

He rolled over in the bed, only to become lost in a sea of Isabel’s dark curls. The night came back to him in a rush so exhilarating, so joyful, the pain in his temples momentarily abated.

He glanced at his surroundings, barely visible in the dim light. They were in her room. Although getting here was a bit of a blur. There were stumbles on the stairs, lips searching in darkness, clasps and buttons and zippers coming undone before they even reached the bed.

A smile spread over his face, involuntary and delightful. He snuggled up against her back and kissed her bare shoulder. She let out a delicious moan that he felt…everywhere.

Well, that settled it. He couldn’t be trapped in a novel. This couldn’t be the Spiral of Despair. He was far too happy.

Outside, it was still dark and it was only now he remembered that something had woken him. The sound of a door closing. He sat up and looked around again. Was someone else here?

The thought brought his headache stampeding back. Darius stood up and felt around the floor for his torn pants. He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. A quick sweep of the room confirmed that it did appear to be empty. The sound had probably been the remnants of a dream spilling over into consciousness.

Relieved, he turned back to the bed. And just as he did, his gaze landed on the nightstand on Isabel’s side. The top drawer was cracked open.

Darius suddenly recalled the last time he’d been in this room—the pharmacy bag he’d glimpsed in that same drawer, and Isabel’s hands blurring as she’d rushed to shut it.

“I often have trouble sleeping. Sometimes I take pills.”

Reason told him not to do it. But the compulsion burning in his veins told him he had every right. Which one was he supposed to listen to? Which one was really him? Maybe neither.

He opened the drawer and peered inside. It was empty.

Simone’s words from earlier echoed in his mind.

“He was far too drunk and riled up to notice the difference when he swallowed all six pills.”

His stomach churned as a theory took hold. He glanced at Isabel’s sleeping form. With her curls spread like a halo over the pillow, she looked like an angel.

It can’t be true, he told himself. It just can’t.

Before he could second-guess himself, he eased the drawer shut. But just as it closed, he spotted something inside, hiding in a dark corner. He aimed his flashlight beam into the drawer and his toes went numb.

All this time he thought it was gone. All this time he thought Simone had stolen it.

But it was right here. In Isabel’s room.

His flash drive.

The first thing Isabel saw when she awoke was her nightstand drawer.

Open.

She bolted upright. Where is it? Where did it go? She collapsed against the pillows as the memory returned—she’d moved the pharmacy bag to her suitcase two days ago, after Darius had nearly discovered it.

Darius…

Turning over, she found the other side of the bed empty, the covers pushed back and the pillow still creased. She bolted upright again, scanning the room. He was gone. Where? Left in the middle of the night like the rest of her meaningless one-night stands? That didn’t sound like Darius. The way he’d caressed her last night. It was gentle. Respectful. Adoring.

The memory brought a pleasant shiver to her skin and a small smile to her lips.

Until her gaze landed on the antique desk in the corner and the empty space where her laptop used to be.

Darius kneaded his hands restlessly as the laptop booted up. He sat in the darkness of the library, rolling the flash drive between his fingers, trying to ignore the angry voice in his mind. But it was too loud. And making too much sense.

She used you to get this. And you were stupid enough to fall for it.

How had Isabel gotten this flash drive? Had she stolen it from Simone? Or maybe Simone had never taken it in the first place. Maybe it had been Isabel all along.

The laptop chimed and he refocused on the screen where a log-on prompt stared back at him. With sharp, vengeful jabs of his fingers, he typed the password he’d watched Isabel enter two days ago. The old Darius would have felt shame for such an intrusion. But that Darius was gone now. Burned in the flames of that damn tattoo.

The screen flashed once and he was in. He took a deep, steadying breath—the kind you take before your life changes forever—and with the precision of a surgeon inserting a live beating heart into an open chest cavity, Darius slipped the flash drive into the port.

There were two files. The first was a PDF, titled only with a date.

That familiar steady hum began to pulse through Darius’s body again. His detective’s hunch confirming he was on the right track. If he was real, then that hunch was real too. Not a plot device used to control a fictional character, but a true compass he could rely on. And it was pointing to one conclusion: This must be the manuscript for McCloud’s controversial new book.

But when Darius opened the file, he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. A dizzying tapestry of numbers and letters swam across his vision.

It wasn’t a manuscript. It was a bank statement, dated just this month, for a company called McCloud Asset Holdings LLC. But unlike any bank statement Darius had seen, this one showed only direct deposits, no debits or withdrawals. And every amount was in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, all originating from the same place: Sinclair & Associates Literary Agency.

The gears in Darius’s mind spun like tires stuck in the mud, until finally something found traction. He scrolled to the bottom of the statement and sucked in a sharp breath.

Ending Balance: $2,109,478

A shiver passed through him. This was it! The proof that someone had stolen this money from Ian McCloud. Had McCloud somehow found this statement and confronted the thief? But the statement didn’t contain a name, just the LLC, registered in Belize City.

Darius suddenly remembered the second file in the folder. It wasn’t titled with a date, but with a long string of numbers.

991545789654231

He clicked, hands trembling, mind racing as the screen revealed a receipt for a pending transfer dated the first night of the conference, at 10:18, shortly before the power went out. According to this document, the entire account balance—over two million dollars—had been transferred from McCloud Asset Holdings LLC to a personal account registered to—

Darius felt the blood drain from his face just as a voice bellowed from the door. “Is that my laptop?”

Panic churned through Isabel like a violent current. It was her laptop. She strode toward the table but froze as her gaze landed on the flash drive jutting out from the port. Her body went numb.

“What are you doing?” she asked sharply.

Darius didn’t reply. His gaze darted between her and the lit-up screen like a deer trapped in the glare of oncoming headlights. Isabel crossed the room and tried to lean over his shoulder, but he leapt out of the chair, scurrying away from her.

“What is this?” she asked, trying to make sense of what was on the screen.

“You tell me.”

Isabel dropped into the chair and slid the laptop closer. “Transaction details,” she read aloud. “ACH transfer amount: two million, one hundred and nine thousand, four hundred—” She gasped and looked up. “No!”

“Yes,” Darius said in a cautious tone. She didn’t like the way he was watching her, like a chess player trying to calculate his opponent’s next move. “That flash drive has the most recent bank statement for McCloud Asset Holdings LLC.”

“That’s the company Alastair told us about!” Her body shook with anticipation. “The bank account that twenty percent of McCloud’s advances and royalties was being transferred to.”

“Yes,” he repeated, again in that strange tone, like he expected a different reaction from her. “But it was emptied on Friday night.”

“What?” Isabel peered back at the screen, and her heart stopped. Her hand fell limply into her lap, too numb to grip on to anything, especially reality.

That’s when she realized Darius had been right all along. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a story in someone’s imagination. How else could she explain what she was seeing?

Her mother had always believed in an omnipotent being in the sky, a vengeful god controlling everyone, dealing out destinies like playing cards. She was wrong.

It was a vengeful writer, punishing Isabel for the night of October 3.

You’re a bad girl, Izzy.

She suddenly felt like clawing at the walls.

Take me off the page! Cut me out of the narrative! I want out!

But her silent pleas were met with silent emptiness. And she was still there. Staring at that pending transfer receipt for two million dollars. At the name listed as the recipient.

Isabel Torres.

Chapter Sixty-Six

“You” was all Darius could say. He was having trouble breathing. He was having even more trouble standing.

Isabel looked up. Bathed in the glow of the screen, her face was pale. Ghostly. Guilty.

“What the hell is this?” She actually had the nerve to laugh. Like this was all a big joke. It was his fucking heart! He’d handed it to her and she crushed it like a juicy tomato she wanted to boil up for a sauce. “Where did you find this?”

“In your room,” he spat. “In your nightstand drawer.” Maybe that would knock the obnoxious smile off her face.

It didn’t. She only laughed again. A short nasal sound. “Well, someone must have put it there because I don’t know what this is.”

“I can tell you exactly what it is!” Darius exploded. “It’s motive. You stole two million dollars from Ian McCloud. It wasn’t Alastair who took it. It was you.”

“Are you kidding?” She scoffed. “I didn’t steal anything. And I definitely don’t have two million dollars in my bank account.”

“At least not until Friday night,” Darius said darkly. “When you transferred this money from your shell company to your own personal account.”

Isabel crossed her arms. “How would I have done that with no inter—” Her voice cut off as they both stumbled upon the answer at the same time.

“No internet?” he challenged. “Not even a secret Wi-Fi network you just happened to know about?”

“Hey! I didn’t know about that until Sunday morning when Bennett told us.”

“So you say. But if I remember correctly, you have a history of lying. Isn’t that what you told me? It drove your father away.”

She flinched from the sting of her own words thrown back at her. “That was different, Darius. I was just a kid. I swear I’m not lying this time.”

But he wasn’t falling for it. Not again. “Let me see if I got this right. You steal two million dollars from McCloud, who thinks his agent did it. But then he digs deeper and figures out it’s you. McCloud confronts you on Friday night, and you panic and empty the account so you can close it and cover your tracks. But not before you decide to kill him to protect your secret. Or maybe you were already planning to do that. Maybe that’s why you’re really here. A fantasy writer at a mystery writing conference.”

She shook her head and stood up. “No. You’ve got it all wrong.”

“You take out the power, sneak into his room via the balcony, and swap out all his pills for sleeping pills,” Darius continued, “knowing he’ll be drunk in the dark and won’t be able to tell the difference. Then you try to flush the real pills down the toilet in the adjacent guest room, not realizing it didn’t work. The overdose of sleeping pills combined with the alcohol in his system was lethal. It didn’t matter if he went to the hot springs or not. He was dead either way. That was just a lucky turn of events for you, making the whole thing look like an accidental drowning.”

“Darius,” Isabel tried again. “You’re grasping.”

“No, I’m not!” he shouted, flinging a hand toward the laptop. “The proof is right there! On that flash drive! Which I found in your room.”

“You don’t think someone could have planted that there?” Her voice was calm. Of course it was calm. She was a fucking psychopath! “Just like someone planted the pills in Bennett’s room?”

“Yeah, you!” he cried. “You framed him. Just like you tried to frame Alastair for the missing money. That was why you suggested him as the most likely suspect when we were searching McCloud’s room. You said he had the strongest motive because of the stolen money. But that was just you trying to control the narrative.” He paused, something suddenly occurring to him as he thought back to the conversation at dinner on the first night. “Was it because Alastair wouldn’t represent your novel? Was that just a nice little bonus revenge for you? Murder Ian McCloud and take down the man who rejected you at the same time?”

“You’re missing an important piece, Darius,” Isabel snapped through gritted teeth. Her cool façade was crumbling. He was getting to her. It would only be moments before she cracked and confessed it all. “What reason do I have to steal from Ian McCloud? My career is going well. My books are selling.”

Darius opened his mouth to fire back a response before realizing he didn’t have one. It was an important piece. “I don’t know. Maybe it was some kind of revenge. He screwed you over somehow. Didn’t Simone think you two were…” But he couldn’t say the word. It was too sharp a knife. “So you found a way to access his email and send that forged direct deposit form to his agency, transferring twenty percent of his big upcoming paydays to your offshore account.”

Darius crossed his arms, trying to appear more menacing than he felt. But Isabel just started laughing again. Shaking her head back and forth. “I know what this is.”

“So do I,” he shot back. “This is you trying to disarm me.”

“No.” She collapsed into the chair with a weary sigh. “It’s the writer trying to reclaim control of the narrative with another red herring.”

“Don’t.” Darius pointed a finger at her. “Don’t even go there. There is no writer. That was just a sleep-deprived delusion. You said so yourself. This is all real, right? It’s not fiction!”

“She must have written that flash drive into the story to hook you. To hurt you. And it worked. You’re all riled up and accusing people of murder again. Which is exactly what she wants!”

Darius couldn’t speak. He was too cold. Too numb.

“Isn’t it a nice, tidy coincidence you just happened to find that in my room?” She snapped her fingers with feigned revelation. “Except, wait! There are no coincidences in mystery novels, right?”

He stood, seething at her, his angry breath steaming up the air. Suddenly all he could think about was how easy that flash drive was for him to find—conveniently tucked into a half-open drawer like someone had placed it right in front of him.

The writer…

The irrational theory started to take hold again. If this was a novel and the writer wanted to lure him back into the plot, this was the perfect way to do it. With the clue that started it all. A flash drive. Presented to him on a silver platter.

“Are you forgetting one of the most popular strategies of Step 9?” Isabel pressed on. “The helper character’s betrayal?”

“No,” he said, the doubt creeping back in, tinting his vision a murky gray. This was not a novel. No one was manipulating him. He was in control! He made his own decisions.

“And what a perfect plot point for someone with a history of betrayal.” Isabel’s voice was suddenly so gentle it cracked open his already shattered heart. “Your mother betrayed you, lied to you, hurt you, and now the writer is setting it up to look like I did the same.”

Stop! Darius wanted to shout but the words wouldn’t come. Stop making sense! It was a diversion tactic. It had to be. Yet it was also devastatingly, crushingly, achingly true.

How could you betray me like this? Your own son?

Don’t be so dramatic, Darius. I didn’t betray you. I saved you from a life of disappointment and frustration.

“ ‘Step 9,’ ” Isabel continued. “ ‘The detective reaches an emotional rock bottom, partly because of their failure to solve the case, but also because of their failure to recognize and heal their own personal wounds.’ ”

“Stop quoting my book at me!” he shouted.

“It’s the same in fantasy. In all genres. You use the character’s wound to bring them to their darkest place. Only there can real change occur. It’s emotional manipulation, but it makes for a satisfying character arc. That’s why, in my series, I revealed that my character might be the daughter of the king. It hits her most tender spot because she’s never felt like she belonged anywhere.” Isabel sighed. “The writer is doing the same to you. She’s hitting you in your most tender spot.”

“There is no writer!” Darius bellowed. “It’s just like you said, someone is using The Bestseller Formula to get away with murder.” He stopped, a realization shivering down his spine. One that he should have seen way, way earlier. “You’ve been quoting my book from the start. Word for word. You and your eidetic memory. If anyone’s been setting up red herrings and plot twists, it’s you. Meanwhile, you slip Ian McCloud a lethal dose of your sleeping pills and—”

“I don’t take sleeping pills!” Isabel exploded. “I’ve never taken a sleeping pill in my life.”

Startled, Darius took a step back. “What?”

“I lied. To you and to Jade. You opened my nightstand drawer, saw the pharmacy bag, and I panicked. It seemed like the most believable explanation. A writer who takes sleeping pills to deal with her writer’s block.”

“You mean, you didn’t take a sleeping pill the night Marjorie was killed?”

“No.”

“But your eyes were all glazed, like you were on something.”

“I was fucking exhausted. I’d been up for days.”

He wanted to believe her. God, how he wanted all of this to be true. But wanting something to be real didn’t make it real.

“What was in the bag?” he asked darkly.

“What?”

“You said you panicked when I saw the pharmacy bag. If it wasn’t pills, what was in it?”

She hesitated, eyes darting to the window, the floor, anywhere but his face. “I—”

“Never mind.” He cut her off before another lie could form. “I don’t want to know. No matter what you say, I’ll never know if it’s true. I’ll never be able to trust you.”

Isabel covered her face with her hands. It took him a few moments to realize she was covering her tears. “Please, Darius. I didn’t do this. You have to believe me. Someone is messing with us. Someone is messing with you.” Her tired voice broke on the last word.

It almost broke him too. In any other scenario, in any other plot, it might have. He once believed himself to be the kind of man who could never watch a woman cry without rushing to comfort her. That was before Isabel’s name appeared on that transfer receipt.

“It doesn’t matter,” he realized, resignation settling around him like a dark cloud. “Whether we’re in someone’s novel or not, I lose either way.”

Isabel dropped her hand, revealing wet cheeks and glassy eyes. “What?”

“If there is a writer manipulating me, pushing on my wound, intentionally hurting me, then she’s won and I’ve lost. She’s proved that I have no free will, no escape. Whatever I do, she’ll always be one step ahead. Because I’m just a character in her story, locked on her page.” He took a breath, feeling the hopelessness suffocate him. “But if this is real, and there’s no writer pulling the strings, then everything on that flash drive is true and I lose again. Because that means you’ve been the one manipulating me.” Tears began to well up in his own eyes.

“Darius,” she began softly.

“No. Don’t.” He backed away from the desk, shaking his head again and again, as if he could finally wake himself up from this nightmare. “Either way, I lose. I lose everything.”

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Darius stared out the window of his room, the moonlight obscuring his reflection in the glass, turning his features into distorted fun-house versions of themselves. His dark, neatly cropped hair, his large brown eyes, the strong chin his mother claimed he inherited from his grandfather. Were they even his? Had they ever been? Or were they just line items on a character profile? Details designed to make him feel fleshed out and complete. To feel like a real person.

But the truth was, he hadn’t felt real in a long time.

Not since he’d woken up in that ditch and realized everything he believed was a lie.

If there was a writer, she would have developed him that way on purpose. Burdened his life with problems and fears and a history of betrayal to make him worthy of being on her page. To make it easier to control him. A prisoner of her imagination.

Or if there wasn’t a writer—if this was all real—then he was a prisoner of his own mistakes and bad judgments. And he honestly didn’t know which was worse.

Despite the sunrise on the horizon, the light outside was darkening, turning the sky a ghostly violet color, bringing with it the threat of rain.

A symbol of guilt and regret, he’d always believed. A dark omen foreshadowing some type of reckoning.

A bolt of lightning lit up the room, illuminating the wooden frame on the wall behind him. Darius turned and stared at the quote hanging above the bed like a tombstone.

“Failure is just a plot twist in disguise.”

—Philip Thornfield

Suddenly a surge of destructive determination overcame him. He leapt onto the bed, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs, and tore the frame from the wall. The sound of ripping metal echoed through the room. That quote had mocked him since the moment he arrived. Those words had mocked him his whole life. His failures had never felt like anything more noteworthy or promising than just failures.

He held the frame high above his head, eyeing the hardwood floor that would certainly shatter it to pieces.

Do it, he told himself.

Don’t do it, he told himself.

It’ll feel amazing, he told himself.

Only for a second, before the remorse comes, he told himself.

You’ve been afraid of consequences your whole life, he told himself.

And it’s kept you safe, he told himself.

Which voice was real? Which voice was him? Maybe neither. Maybe they were both constructs in someone else’s mind. Characters were supposed to be full of contradictions. He’d written those very words himself in The Bestseller Formula. Characters were supposed to be consistent yet surprising. They were supposed to be relatable yet unique. Flawed yet competent. Strong yet vulnerable. They were supposed to have agency yet be hesitant to change.

It was too much!

No wonder he couldn’t write a fucking novel. He couldn’t even be a fucking person!

With a roar, Darius hurled the frame at the ground. It struck just as a crack of thunder tore through the sky, creating a crash so magnificent, so explosive, it startled him off his feet.

A heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the sound of wind gusts battering the window. Darius sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the shattered glass, scattered like bitter tears across the floor. And just as he’d been warned, the remorse started to creep in, as predictable as a line of logic in a computer code. If this, then that.

If Darius does something rash, then make sure he regrets it.

If Darius breaks out of his comfort zone, then make sure he bounces right back in.

If Darius falls for a beautiful, intriguing girl, then make extra sure she breaks his heart.

It was hardwired into his very existence.

He couldn’t escape. For him, failure wasn’t a plot twist in disguise. It was a plot hole that he could never seem to dig himself out of.

I shut my eyes. I can’t watch this anymore. I can’t watch him fall apart.

I thought this would feel good. I thought this was what I wanted. To get revenge. To make Darius pay for what he did to my dream, my masterpiece.

He hit me where it hurt the most, so I did the same to him.

Don’t you dare judge me. Not when every writer you’ve ever read has done the exact same thing. Why do you think we give our characters these devastating backstories? These deep emotional wounds? Because that’s what makes them real. Pain makes them human. You think fears are created out of thin air? You think flaws appear overnight?

No, they’re forged. In emotional trauma. In neglect, abuse, loss, heartache, and yes, betrayal. The wound is your character’s defining moment, where the most fragile scars sit unhealed, tender to the touch, just waiting to be ripped open again.

So that’s what I did.

Not for the sake of the plot or the character arc. But for the sake of my selfish, vengeful wrath. Born from my own deep, biting wounds.

Darius isn’t the monster in this story.

I am.

I destroyed everything I love. I am my ultimate undoing. I am the villain.

This book—this diabolical story—has turned me into everything I hate, everything I tried to stop. And just like Darius, I’m trapped inside it, with clocks ticking and walls closing in and my failure seeping into every page.

I’m not sure I believe in a higher power, but as Darius falls apart on the screen of my laptop, I fall to my knees and whisper a quiet prayer.

“Please release me from this hell. This guilt. This prison of my own making.”

But who am I kidding? It would take a miracle to get me out now.

I open my eyes and touch the screen, as if I could reach right through it and touch Darius’s cheek, cover his pain with my own, heal his wound with a simple stroke of my hand. But I know better. Wounds that deep never really heal. We just learn to live with them. And if we’re really lucky, we learn to love them.

I’ve never been that lucky.

I shut my laptop and collapse to the ground, resting my cheek on the dusty hardwood floor. My office is a sea of crumpled pages and discarded notes. I think maybe I will lie here forever, surrounded by the carcasses of my dead, failed dream. I wonder if anyone would ever find me. Locked up here in my cell. My writer’s cave. My den of iniquity.

Or would I just wither away to more dust?

Another failed writer, lost to the pages of history.

But then I hear it…

Outside my office. A soft pattering sound. I’m almost too afraid to look. Afraid to hope for anything as forgiving as rain. Do I even deserve to be forgiven?

I don’t know. But when I turn my head toward the window, where light is slowly breaking through the darkness, I see the tiniest drops of salvation. They trace splintered lines down the glass, washing away the past in sharp, jagged strokes.

I don’t believe it.

I’m saved.

I’ve been given a gift. A second chance. A miracle.

But it won’t last forever. I can’t waste another moment.

I push myself up from the floor, sit down at my desk, and reopen my laptop. With a deep, cleansing breath, I get back to work. There’s a lot to do. A lot of messes to clean up. This story went off the rails more than a few times and it won’t be easy to fix. But I’m done whining about it. No more excuses. No more wallowing in my despair.

It’s time to finish what I started.

Step 10

“The Spark in the Dark”

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Isabel’s bare feet whispered across the hardwood floors as she darted through the corridors, a grim determination coursing through her. This secret had destroyed everything. It was time to come clean about all of it—the reason she went to McCloud’s house three months ago, the reason she was here, a fantasy writer at a mystery writing conference.

It was time to confess everything.

She turned the corner into the south wing and raced down the twisting corridors to her room. But the moment she stepped inside, she was stopped by an unsettling sensation. There was a lingering presence in the room—like the shadow of a ghost. It wasn’t as obvious as the smoky aroma that had given Bennett away, but someone had definitely been in here. Recently.

Pulse pounding, she darted to the closet where she’d stashed the pharmacy bag, already imagining the worst.

She hadn’t lied to Darius when she told him she didn’t kill McCloud or steal his money out of revenge. Because this was never about revenge. She just wanted to force him to face up to what he did. That’s why she was banging on his door in the middle of the night on October 3.

Robert Shapiro! I know you’re in there! Open the door, you asshole!

Hours before she’d driven to his house, she’d been trying to sleep, tossing and turning, before finally pouring herself a drink. Then another, and another. She knew it was a terrible idea. She should not be drinking in her current condition. Yet, before she knew it, she was drunk, sitting on the floor, violently paging through old diary entries, each scrawled with angrier and angrier strokes of the pen.

He made promises he never intended to keep.

I thought I was special, but he does it to all of them.

I was just unlucky.

Mami warned me about men like R.S. When will I ever learn?

The burning hot rage had taken over. It was already coursing through her veins like lava. She was no longer piloting her own body. The fire was. The fire propelled her to her feet and into the car. The fire drove her to Ian McCloud’s house that night.

That temper of yours, mija. It’s going to be the death of you.

But she never had a chance to confront him—at least not that she remembered. Instead, she drove home covered in blood, with a dead woman in her rearview mirror.

Then, two weeks ago, the invitation to this conference arrived—a sign, a second chance. The secret had been growing inside her for more than three months by then. This time, she was determined to come prepared. She went to the pharmacy. She bought a test. Two, actually, just to be certain. She knew false positives were rare but she couldn’t leave any room for doubt.

That first night, after everyone was asleep, Isabel climbed across the stone bracket between balconies and snuck into room 307 with the tests tucked into her pocket, hoping to find McCloud. But the room was empty. Later, she’d learn that he’d gone down to the hot springs—and never came back. She was about to leave when something caught her eye: His wedding ring on the nightstand. With M.S. + R.S. engraved inside.

And the burning hot rage pulsed within her once more. How dare he wear this farce of a ring! This empty symbol. How dare he pretend to be a devoted, loving husband while women like Isabel were walking around with bleeding wounds in their chests.

She hadn’t meant to keep it. Simone started knocking on the door, demanding to be let in. Isabel panicked and pocketed the ring before slipping back onto the balcony. She hid next door, in room 309, until Simone finally left.

Isabel forgot all about the ring. Until its owner showed up dead.

All she’d ever wanted to do was confront Ian McCloud. That was the only reason she was here. The only reason she’d driven to his house in the middle of the night. She wanted him to know what he’d done. To live with the consequences the way she had to every damn day. But both attempts had ended in death.

Now, heart in her throat, she yanked open the closet door, ready to tell Darius everything. To prove she hadn’t come here to kill anyone. She’d only come because of this—she reached into her duffel bag, rooting around for the pharmacy bag with the two pastel-colored boxes inside.

But it was gone.

Creeeeak.

Jade jolted awake with a gasp, like a child waking from a nightmare. She couldn’t remember falling asleep. All she knew was that it was now light outside and something had woken her—the creak of floorboards. Like someone walking around the room.

Evelyn!

Her gaze snapped to the bed, half expecting to find it empty. But the old woman was still there, still unconscious, breathing softly, the cat asleep beside her. Jade’s shoulders fell as she approached the bed, her gaze drawn to the crimson-stained bandage wrapped around Evelyn’s head.

The injury would need cleaning and a fresh wrapping soon to avoid infection. Jade made her way to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit that Alastair had used to dress the wound. But when she returned to Evelyn’s side, she noticed something unusual about the bloodstain.

Jade leaned closer, fingers hovering over the bandage. Shouldn’t the blood have spread overnight, creating a larger stain as it seeped through the gauze? But the crimson pattern looked unchanged. Perhaps it had simply stopped bleeding. Or maybe someone replaced the bandage while Jade was asleep?

“Did you see anyone?” she asked Dexter, but the cat continued to doze peacefully.

She suddenly remembered the creak that had woken her and straightened up, her gaze scanning the room. That’s when her attention snagged on the antique desk in the corner.

The bottom drawer was wide open. Was it like that before?

Curiously, Jade made her way to the desk, the memory of what she and Isabel had found in there yesterday rushing back to her.

…concentric rings rippling across the page like fingerprints…

…annotations scribbled in red ink. Old logging road with mining ops—Unstable.

Why had Evelyn marked up that map? Was she simply looking for hiking trails, as she’d mentioned earlier? Or was she looking for something else?

Jade inched closer to the desk, her muscles tightening. With every step, she became more certain that the drawer had definitely been closed last night. But it was now open.

And empty.

Okay, good. That’s done. What’s next?

I glance at my revision list, hastily typed up on my laptop—a seemingly endless catalog of tasks.

Checkmark inside a blank box. Remove Isabel’s tests

Checkmark inside a blank box. Destroy Evelyn’s map

Blank box. Wipe fingerprints

Blank box. Erase tracks (the rain should take care of most)

Blank box. Destroy unclaimed name tags

Blank box. Plant McCloud’s phone and other evidence for police to find

Blank box. Summon help

Blank box. Make sure no one discovers Marjorie’s—

Something in the corner of the screen catches my eye and I rip my gaze from the list.

Wait a minute…

I take a quick mental inventory of my characters, obsessively checking everyone’s location in a growing panic. Someone is missing.

My body goes numb. My stomach clenches with dread.

Where the hell is Simone?

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Rain streamed into Simone’s eyes as she fought her way through wet tree branches and soggy underbrush, circling the gazebo once, twice, again. The old wooden structure loomed dark against the stormy sky, offering little shelter from the driving rain or her growing desperation.

Where are they? They have to be here somewhere!

She got down on hands and knees and crawled through the dirt, which was quickly turning to mud. Cold rainwater seeped through her clothes, chilling her to the bone, but she didn’t care. She was desperate. She would not be the fool in this story. Not anymore. Ian McCloud had already taken away her dignity, her moral compass, her sense of self. She would not be robbed of anything else.

Especially not this moment to prove herself.

Earlier that morning, she’d remembered something Bennett said when she confronted him about Evelyn:

“Last I saw her, she was rambling about tire tracks and then I lost her in the woods.”

Simone kept crawling, hands roving through mud, twigs and branches scraping her skin, marring her perfect face. It used to be her most prized possession, her best asset. Until now.

She pushed aside a tangle of wet undergrowth, squinting through the blinding rain, and froze. A shiver ricocheted down her spine.

There.

The muddied indentations in the dirt were narrow and already fading from the rain. Her heart pounded as she pushed aside another branch, revealing more of the tracks. They curved away from the gazebo, disappearing into the trees.

They were too narrow to be from a car. Maybe a bicycle or a—

The steady drumming of rain seemed to quiet as realization swept through Simone.

At that moment, she knew she was destined to play a bigger role in this story than the fool. The pawn. The patsy. She was destined to be the hero.

Because she, and she alone, knew exactly what had made these tracks.

Jade stared into the empty desk drawer where Evelyn’s map used to be.

“Jasmine?” she whispered again. “Are you there?”

She anxiously paced the length of the room, listening, waiting. But her footsteps and Evelyn’s soft breathing were the only sounds. Her sister remained stubbornly silent. And Jade felt herself crumbling under the weight of her absence.

“Jasmine, please.” Her voice grew louder than she’d ever dared let it. “You can’t abandon me now! We’re co-authors, remember? We’re supposed to be in this together! I can’t do this alone. I need you. I’ve always needed you. You said you were here to help me. So fucking help me!”

She was shouting now, but she didn’t care. No one had ever listened to her anyway. She wasn’t the voice they all wanted to hear. She wasn’t the writer they wanted to read. She was a shadow. A harmony. A subplot. While Jasmine was the light. The melody. The plot.

And what’s a subplot without a plot?

“Jasmine—” She tried again in a broken voice, but a soft rustling sound interrupted her.

With a gasp, she turned toward the figure lying unconscious in the bed. Except she was no longer unconscious. Evelyn’s eyes blinked open.

Darius’s eyes blinked open. The room came into soft focus. The evidence of his first-ever temper tantrum was scattered at his feet. He stared at the wreckage of the frame he’d smashed across the hardwood floor, the printed quote just visible beneath the shattered glass.

“Failure is just a plot twist in disguise ”

He braced himself for the familiar shame that would surely wash over him at the sight of what he’d done, but it was suddenly nowhere to be found. In its place was something else. A shimmering, pulsing curiosity.

What on earth…?

Brushing aside the shards of glass with his shoe, he could see the text of the quote more clearly. And more important, he could see what was missing from it.

The period at the end of the sentence was gone. The words just lay there, unfinished, an incomplete thought. Darius bent down to pick up the thick piece of cream-colored card stock and stared at the small gap in the page where the period used to be. An opening roughly the size of a hole punch. Just big enough to fit—

His gaze fell back to the floor, landing on a tiny black object nearby.

That.

Darius pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. It was perfectly spherical, no bigger than a pea. He held it up to the dreary morning light that streamed through the window. The gleam bounced chaotically across the shiny black surface.

A former version of himself surely would have felt panic chugging through his veins. But as Darius studied the tiny device, he felt eerily calm. Possibly even relieved. Like a writer who’d finally figured out how to finish the sentence he’d been working on for days.

“Why are you doing this?” Isabel whispered to the empty lounge as she desperately arranged cocktail napkins across a table. On each one, she’d scribbled a clue. A piece of the puzzle.

A plagiarized manuscript.

A publicly discredited victim of sexual assault.

Two million dollars stashed in an offshore bank account.

A dead woman in a cottage and a trespasser caught on camera with blood on her hands.

Rain pelted the stained-glass windows of the lounge, which still bore a strong resemblance to the chapel it used to be. Isabel suddenly understood why Mami had spent so much time in rooms like this, pleading to an imaginary figure in the sky, begging for answers to impossible questions, just as Isabel was doing now.

“Why are we here?” She reshuffled the napkins and aligned them in a grid across the table. That’s when she noticed one was missing. How could she forget? It was the most important piece of all. She grabbed a blank napkin from her stack and scribbled:

A bestselling author—an adulterer, a manipulator, a liar—murdered at a writing conference.

Suddenly, everything in her mind shifted as a new shape took form. She hastily rearranged the napkins once more—this time not in a grid, but in a circle, placing the new piece in the middle.

It wasn’t a puzzle.

It was a spiderweb.

With Ian McCloud at the dead center.

He was the thread that connected them all. His murder was the reason they were all here. But it wasn’t the only reason…

Outside, the rain pounded harder. Isabel’s gaze snapped to the window, watching the relentless droplets cascade down the stained glass, as if they were trying to wash the stain away.

“I always thought rain symbolized a cleansing of things. Washing away the sins of the past.”

Isabel’s breath caught. That was it.

The writer was a vigilante! On a vendetta to expose all these crimes. To wash away the sins of the past by punishing the guilty and defending the innocent. To bring down the bad guys, starting with the one at the center of it all.

These crimes were more than just plot threads. They were seeds of inspiration. The writer’s why.

Darius told her that McCloud was writing a new book, containing dark truths that would make a lot of people very angry. And now Isabel understood.

Those truths were these truths. Those people were these people—these characters trapped in a monastery. And that book was this book. They were living inside it. But it definitely wasn’t Ian McCloud writing it.

“Evelyn!” Jade rushed to the bed. “Evelyn. Can you hear me? It’s Jade.”

The old woman’s lips moved ever so softly as her eyelids began to sink closed again.

“Evelyn!” Jade squeezed her hand. “Do you remember what happened last night? In the woods?”

Evelyn let out a quiet moan, as if wincing at the memory.

“You were attacked,” Jade prompted. “Someone hit you in the head. Do you remember who it was?”

A small puff of air escaped the woman’s lips. It sounded like the start of the letter B.

“B-eh,” said Evelyn, her eyes still closed.

Bennett?

Jade leaned closer. “Are you trying to tell me it was Bennett who attacked you?”

“B-eh…B-eh-ind” came the feeble response.

“Behind,” Jade repeated. “Someone hit you in the head from behind? Who was it?”

Evelyn whimpered in pain, and Jade wondered if she was pushing too hard, too fast. Should she have waited more than a millisecond to interrogate the poor woman?

But she couldn’t give up now. Not when she was so close.

Jade took a breath. “Evelyn. Did you see who attacked you?”

Evelyn shifted anxiously under the covers, then settled, as if she’d fallen back asleep.

Jade squeezed her hand again. “Stay with me. Stay awake. Are you sure it wasn’t Bennett?”

A second passed. A lifetime. And then…

“It was,” Evelyn rasped.

Jade stood up straighter, adrenaline pumping wildly. It was Bennett! That monster!

Another creak pulled Jade’s attention back to the bed, where Evelyn was stirring again.

“It was…” she repeated, but this time there was an inconclusiveness to her tone. A pause that sent a tremor of hesitation through Jade. Evelyn’s eyes fluttered open for just a second, but it was long enough to hold Jade’s gaze. To confirm that the woman was lucid. Sane. Reliable.

“…not one of us.”

“Fiction is not an escape from reality, but a lens through which we can view it more clearly.”

—Marcus Lockhart

Like a pilgrim praying at an altar, Darius gazed at the framed quote hanging from the foyer wall. It was the first one he saw when he entered the monastery three days ago. Perfectly placed, right in his eyeline.

Slowly, hesitantly, he removed the frame from the hook and unscrewed the backing. His mind felt like it was playing a deadly game of tug-of-war on the edge of a cliff. As Darius pulled away the wooden slat holding the printed card stock in place, he sucked in a breath.

There it was. Exactly where he suspected it would be. Disguised as a period at the end of a sentence.

A tiny camera.

The world around him slowed to a crawl, his racing thoughts the only thing moving. Then, in a burst of determination, he darted across the foyer and ripped the next frame from the wall with an animalistic roar.

“Very few of us are what we seem.”

—Agatha Christie

Darius’s hands shook as he fumbled with the metal clasps until the backing was off and he could confirm what he already knew.

Another hole cut into the page. Another camera.

The frame slipped from his grasp and shattered across the marble floor. Darius’s whole body went numb as he spun in a slow, dizzying circle. He felt like he was in a fun house full of mirrors, except they weren’t mirrors.

The memory of what he said when he first walked into this room came rushing back.

“Look at all these framed quotes on the wall! They’re like little nuggets of inspiration.”

No, not inspiration. Observation. Blended perfectly into the setting. Disguised as writing advice. There had to be hundreds of them hanging around the monastery. In every room. On every wall. Covering every angle.

Every point of view.

“Someone’s been watching us the whole time,” he whispered.

Chapter Seventy

“Hurry,” I whisper to myself as another video feed goes dark. Another frame shattered at Darius’s feet.

He knows. He’s found the cameras. How long until he finds everything else?

Simone is on her way back right now to tell the others about the tracks. The rain didn’t work fast enough. I didn’t work fast enough.

And there’s still so much to do.

But I’m running out of time.

“What the hell are you doing?” Isabel burst into the foyer just as Darius ripped a frame from the wall and smashed it against the floor, shattering the glass in a magnificent crash.

“The quotes!” he cried, his eyes wild and manic. “There are cameras in the quotes!”

“What?” Isabel flinched as another frame met its demise on the marble floor.

Darius bent down and scoured the wreckage, slicing open his fingers.

“Stop!” she cried, rushing forward. But she froze, speechless, as he unearthed a tiny black device from the rubble and thrust it toward her.

“They’re in every frame, in every room.”

Isabel stared numbly at the camera. “B-b-but how?”

“What do you mean, how?” Darius shot back. “Someone obviously hid them there, so they could watch us. Day and night.”

She shook her head, her mind still stumbling over the details. “No, I mean how would they watch us? On what? The cameras have to be connected to something. Transmitting data to some kind of device. But there’s no power.”

Darius suddenly went very still as an eerie calm settled over his face. “That we know of.”

“What?” she asked, but he was already gone, running, slipping on broken glass as he charged out of the foyer.

Isabel took off after him, weaving through the service hallways. “Where are you going?”

He didn’t reply but the answer became evident as he yanked open the basement door. He hurried down the stairs, his frantic feet nearly tripping over each other.

“I forgot all about it,” he said as he fanned his flashlight around the dusty utility room. “I saw it earlier, but I never got a chance to look closely because the gas started to leak and—” He froze mid-step, the epiphany on his face brighter than his flashlight beam.

“That’s why someone tried to kill me.” He charged toward the far back wall, wading through old furniture and rusting machinery. “To keep me from finding this.” He shoved aside a large dusty filing cabinet, the metal scraping against the cement floor, until the small panel behind it was visible.

“A fuse box?” She frowned in confusion. “I thought you said all the fuses were removed.”

“From the main panel, yes,” said Darius, breathless from the effort and the excitement. “But this is a second fuse box.”

He pried open the rusty door and aimed his flashlight inside. Isabel’s stomach dropped.

The small breaker box contained three short rows of undisturbed sockets. Fuses that were intact.

“What does this mean?” Isabel asked in a shaky voice, even though she already knew. She just needed someone else to say it aloud.

“It means there’s still power running to somewhere in this monastery.”

Darius squinted through the darkness, staring at the unmarked fuses that changed everything—that turned the plot like a switch—and something clicked into place.

“A secret room,” he whispered. “That’s what they’re powering. That’s where the camera feeds are going. To some central hub hidden on the grounds. A place where someone can oversee everything.”

Isabel gasped. “It’s the killer’s lair!”

His brow furrowed. “From The Bestseller Formula?”

“Yes! Step 11: the Storming of the Killer’s Lair! When the detective figures out where the killer is hiding and goes to confront them.”

Before Darius could respond, Isabel was charging back up the steps, just as tenacious and determined as he’d been moments ago.

“So you actually believe we’re in a mystery novel?” Darius asked, breathlessly trying to keep up.

“Not just any mystery novel.” She paused to lock eyes with him, a chilling certainty brimming in her gaze. “Don’t you see? You were invited here to help write a book. This is the book. This is the story that will reveal dark truths. But the writer needed the help of a skilled detective to reveal them. That’s why you’re here. Why you’re still here.”

She darted across the foyer to the long table where all those unclaimed name tags still sat—Molly Kent, Aditi Nair, Jesper Hollingsworth—guests who never arrived, who never even existed.

“We have to find the killer’s lair,” Isabel announced. “We have to get through the last two steps of the formula if we want to finish the story and get out.” She snatched up a welcome packet and pulled out the stack of floor plans inside.

“Um, I don’t think the killer’s lair would be labeled on the floor plan.”

“No, but there was something strange when Jade and I were searching the fourth floor.” Isabel plucked out the map of the attic. “I was staring at this grid of rooms”—she tapped on the south wing hallway—“and it seemed like there would be an entrance to the south bell tower right here. But Jade said it had been sealed off after the stairwell collapsed and killed a man.”

“I read about that!” Darius said, pulling another page from the folder. “It was in this historical background sheet.” He scoured the text and read aloud. “…after a man was crushed to death…the monastery was forced to close permanently…Thanks to a generous private donation, Pen Ultimate Writers was able to purchase the property and transform the building into a luxury hotel…”

“What if the stairwell was rebuilt during the renovation,” Isabel said, “but the entrance was sealed off? Could that be where the killer’s lair is?”

Darius didn’t respond. His gaze had snagged on something farther up the page.

…typical of the design were monastic cells where the monks would lock themselves away for long periods of intense contemplation, sometimes even sealing off the entrance to ensure complete solitude…

His heart stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Isabel asked, peering at the page.

“It’s not the killer’s lair we’re looking for.” The eerie quality of his own voice chilled him to the core. Something was happening in his mind. Like tectonic plates shifting. Continents breaking apart and fusing back together.

“Authors often refer to their offices as writing caves,” he went on in a distant voice. “Because they lock themselves away from everything and everyone until the book is done.”

“Yeah, so?” Isabel took the page from him and studied it.

“You said there were too many overlaps with The Bestseller Formula to be ignored. You wondered if that meant we were characters in a story that someone was writing in some cozy nook in the woods. Or if it just meant that someone was using the book to get away with murder.”

“Right,” she said, still not following.

He couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t seen it until right now. There were just so many pieces that hadn’t fit. Details that had once seemed disjointed but now were beginning to align.

“What if it’s both?” he whispered, glancing at the nearest framed quote on the wall. He could almost see the tiny camera winking back at him. Still recording. Still transmitting.

“She’s here.”

“What?” asked Isabel, casting anxious glances over her shoulder.

“This is her cozy writing nook in the woods. She’s been controlling the narrative from inside the monastery. She killed McCloud and then planted the prescription bottle in Bennett’s room after flushing McCloud’s pills down the toilet. She slipped the flash drive with the bank statements into your nightstand drawer. She tampered with the brake on the bike and locked me in the basement. She didn’t need any of the characters to do it for her because she’s been here from the very beginning. Watching us. Tracking our every move. Recording it all into the pages of her book. We are her pawns. The players in her perfect murder. She’s been one step ahead of us—one step ahead of me—the whole time.”

“Wait, the writer?” Isabel’s voice was laced with doubt. “Or the killer?”

“Yes.” He locked eyes with her. “The writer of this novel is the killer.”

Step 11

“Storming the

Writer’s Lair”

Chapter Seventy-One

Darius stormed up the main staircase, Isabel right behind him. He took the steps two at a time, his rib cage screaming, his breath coming in short gasps, the metallic tang of adrenaline stinging his tongue.

The writer is the killer! She’s been here the whole time.

“There’s someone else in the monastery!” cried a voice as Darius rounded the third-floor landing, nearly colliding with Jade. “Evelyn wasn’t attacked by one of us. Someone else is here!”

“We know!” Darius called over his shoulder. “It’s the writer!”

He continued up the final flight of stairs. His legs burned but he pressed on, not even stopping to wonder if storming the secret lair of a murderous writer was a good idea. Of course it was a good idea! It was what he was supposed to do. What he had to do.

“The writer?” Jade asked, breathless, as she struggled to keep up with them.

“She’s also the killer,” explained Isabel. “She’s been hiding in a secret room in the south bell tower.”

“But I thought that tower was sealed off,” said Jade.

“There must be a way in,” Darius resolved. By the time he reached the fourth floor, the blood was rushing in his ears. He barreled down the hallway to the south wing and slowed as a long row of Gothic arches came into view on the right, each sheltering an old recessed shrine that had been filled with drywall. “Which one is it?” he asked desperately. “Which wall?”

Isabel appeared beside him, her face set with determination that mirrored his own. She peered at the floor plan clutched in her trembling hands and counted the recesses. “One, two, three…It’s that one!” She pointed. “The fourth one! If there’s an entrance to the tower, it’s behind that fourth wall.”

Darius rushed forward and stood before the ornate stone arch, glaring at the wall beneath it. The plaster was faded in places, but the surface looked solid. No visible seams, no obvious latches or false fronts. Thinking quickly, he darted into a nearby room and grabbed the first thing he could find—a small wooden chair.

“What are you going to do?” Jade whispered, huddling behind him like he was a human shield. Him! A human shield! A protector! It was unreal. No, it was surreal.

No, it was real.

Just like the woman hiding behind that wall. She wasn’t some powerful god in the sky, she was just a person. Like him. Like all of them. Real.

“I’m going to break this fourth wall and get us the fuck out of this story,” he resolved, and then, with the chair thrust out in front of him like a battering ram, he charged.

Isabel stood back as Darius rushed the wall, slamming against it with a loud crack and a cry of pain. Three of the chair legs crumpled upon impact, but the fourth penetrated, creating a spiderweb-shaped fissure in the plaster. It was enough. Isabel dashed forward and shoved her hands into the crack, ripping large pieces of drywall off in jagged chalky chunks. Darius joined in, followed hesitantly by Jade, until all three of them were attacking the façade with ferocious grunts and roars.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Alastair appeared behind them, his eyes still bleary with sleep, tufts of hair sticking out like a dandelion gone to seed.

“We’re storming the killer’s lair!” Isabel shouted as she tore off a giant piece of plaster.

“In the wall?” asked Alastair.

“The wall is a front!” cried Darius. “It’s covering the door to the tower where she’s hiding.”

“She?” repeated Alastair.

“The writer!” Isabel shouted, rubbing sweat and dust from her forehead.

“Oh, good lord, now he’s dragged the rest of them down with him,” muttered Alastair.

Darius ripped off a jagged piece of plaster and waved it at the wall like a weapon. “We know you’re in there!”

“This is a bloody farce.” Alastair groaned. “There’s no one in there!”

“There is!” insisted Isabel. “She’s the person I chased through the hallways when everyone was asleep. And the one I saw sneaking across the grounds the night of Marjorie’s murder.”

“Marjorie must have found this room!” Darius exclaimed with sudden realization.

“Yes!” said Isabel. “So the writer had to kill her too!”

“And!” Jade added, eyes alight, “Hide her body in this room so we wouldn’t find it!”

“What room?” asked Alastair, exasperated. “In case you Sherlocks haven’t noticed, there’s nothing here.” He pointed to the decimated wall.

They fell silent as bits of dust and debris floated in the air like the aftermath of a storm. They’d removed most of the plaster, but all that stared back at them was a fortress of solid stone.

“There has to be.” Darius pressed his hand to the wall. “There’s someone in there. I can feel it. There’s got to be another way in. How else would she—” His gaze snapped to Jade. “Wait a minute. You said Evelyn wasn’t attacked by one of us. How do you know that?”

“She woke up and told me. She said someone attacked her from behind in the woods—”

“Where in the woods?” Darius demanded. “Where did you find her?”

Jade flinched under his intense stare and glanced uneasily at Alastair. “Behind the gazebo. Why does that matter?”

“What was Evelyn doing out there?” Darius muttered, more to himself than the others.

“She was looking for Marjorie, like the rest of us,” Alastair replied, irritated.

“No, she wasn’t,” said a new voice.

Everyone startled and spun to find Simone standing in the corridor, looking like she’d been in a brawl. Her face was scratched, her hands were chafed raw, and she was covered in mud.

“But she was definitely looking for someone.” Simone stared at the piles of drywall with a haunted expression. “Someone who didn’t want to be found.”

They won’t find me.

I’m safe.

The rain will keep me safe.

The rain.

My sweet little miracle sent by the universe. It promised to absolve me. To wash away my sins. It promised!

But I can’t take any chances. Not when my life is on the line. Not when my book is on the line.

After everything that’s happened, I know better than to trust in rain or the universe or the so-called laws of storytelling.

The only thing you can trust in this world is yourself.

Chapter Seventy-Two

Bennett’s fists were bruised and swollen from banging on the locked door of his room. “Let me out of here!” His voice cracked with desperation, but there was only silence in the hallway. Moments ago there had been a cacophony above his head that sounded like a wrecking ball.

Now all was quiet.

He pressed his ear to the door, trying to pick up something. Maybe they were all dead. Maybe the killer had razed them one by one like an executioner’s lineup. Maybe he was next.

A thundering sound vibrated the door and Bennett leapt back, waiting. It was growing louder, getting closer.

Footsteps!

On the stairs!

Bennett banged again. “Can anyone hear me? Let me out!”

But the footsteps grew fainter, disappearing into the distance, until only silence remained.

Bennett collapsed onto the bed. Those fuckers were never going to let him out, even though he was clearly innocent. He wasn’t a killer! He was just a disgruntled middle-aged assistant trying to break into an industry that was near impossible to break into. So, he’d taken a little shortcut to get there, borrowing the old woman’s plot. But that didn’t make him a criminal. If anything, Evelyn should be grateful. She’d probably be dead before she got that thing published. He would have preserved her legacy, given eternal life to her words. But that bitch Simone had ruined everything. Fancying herself a detective and digging up the past.

Voices drifted up through the open window. Hurried and frantic. Bennett rushed to the balcony, squinting through the rain. Simone, Jade, Alastair, and Isabel were all following Darius down the cobblestone path toward the hot springs. Bennett struggled to hear what Darius was saying but the pounding rain kept getting in the way.

“…attacked Evelyn because she was getting too close…must have found something…near the gazebo…didn’t want to be found…”

What the fuck was he talking about? Evelyn was getting too close to what?

Creeeeak.

The sound crashed into his thoughts. Bennett turned, his gaze immediately drawn to the gap beneath the door. There was a subtle change in the light. A darkening. A shifting of shadows.

The killer! It must be. There was no one left in the building except Bennett and…

His breath caught in his throat.

No. It couldn’t be her. Jade said she was unconscious when they found her. A blow to the head.

Unless that was fake. An elaborate ruse to get rid of the rest of them. Send them on some wild-goose chase through the woods. Get herself alone with the man who stole her manuscript.

“Evelyn?” Bennett had never heard his voice sound so small.

He searched for some type of weapon, finding only the poker Simone had threatened him with last night. Gripping it in his hand, he stood rigid before the door, his weapon raised like some inept caveman trying to fight off a woolly mammoth.

Then he started to laugh.

Evelyn wasn’t a woolly mammoth! She was an eighty-year-old woman! He lowered the poker but kept it clutched between his sweaty fingers as the shadow shifted in the hallway.

Creeeeak.

“Hello?” he called out. “Who’s there?”

In the thick silence that followed, a sinister sound crept through the air, a slow deliberate grinding, like bones being gnawed by hungry teeth. The sound of metal grating against metal.

Bennett stood, paralyzed, heart pounding as the shadow slowly disappeared and quiet, hurried footsteps vanished down the hall.

It took five long breaths for him to build up the courage to reach for the handle and turn it. The door eased open. As if it had never been locked. As if he’d never been caged.

Whoever was out there hadn’t come to kill him.

They’d come to release him.

The rain was coming down in sheets now, relentless and blinding, drowning Simone’s hopes with every tenacious drop.

“I don’t understand,” she cried, pacing back and forth between the trees, mud sucking at her shoes. “They were right here!” She dropped to her knees, shoving away branches and twigs, but it was hopeless. Any evidence of what she’d found had been washed away by the rain.

“What was?” Darius had to yell over the downpour as he huddled under a canopy of tree branches with Isabel, Jade, and Alastair, trying to stay dry. “What was right here?”

“The tracks!” called Simone, rain streaming down her face like tears. “They were here. They led from the gazebo into the woods. Now they’re gone.”

“This is mental!” Alastair shouted, wiping water from his eyes. “I’m getting bloody soaked!”

“What kind of tracks?” Isabel asked.

“Tire tracks!” Simone called out. “Evelyn found them.”

“Like from a car?” asked Jade.

Alastair scoffed. “Or perhaps a chariot drawn by four unicorns!”

Simone stood up and joined the others, shivering in her wet clothes. “Not a car,” she pronounced in a grave tone. “A housekeeping cart.”

Silence fell over the group. Four shocked faces stared back at her.

“How do you know that?” Jade’s voice trembled.

“Because I saw it,” Simone said. “In the laundry room. When Alastair and I were searching. I looked inside. It was definitely big enough to fit a body.”

“Yes, but—” Darius protested.

“Then I went back,” Simone interrupted, one step ahead of him for a change. “After I found the tracks, I looked closer at the cart. The wheels were clean. Too clean. As if they’d recently been washed. But I scraped the rubber with my tweezers.”

“You did what?” Darius asked, sounding both surprised and impressed.

She crossed her arms. “You’re not the only one who reads Marlow Griggs novels. I found chalky gray residue in the tires. A perfect match to—”

“The cobblestone path!” Darius glanced back toward the gazebo, eyes locking on the gritty mortar between the paving stones leading to the hot springs.

“Exactly,” said Simone. “We all assumed Ian walked to the hot springs himself. Because how would anyone carry a body down all those stairs and that path? But I think he was murdered in his room and the killer used the housekeeping cart to move his body to the hot springs, making it look like he drowned.”

“But how would the killer get the cart down from the third floor?” Jade asked, brushing wet strands of hair from her face. “The power was out by then. The elevator didn’t work.”

Darius and Isabel exchanged a knowing look.

“The power wasn’t out everywhere,” said Darius. He turned to Simone, his face alight with wonder. “Simone, you did it. You’re brilliant!”

Warmth spread through her, chasing away the chill from her wet clothes. Despite the fact that there was still a killer on the loose, she couldn’t stop beaming.

“Did what exactly?” Alastair asked, once again with that callous exasperation. “Made up a nice story? Wrote a little fiction?” He gestured to the muddy forest floor. “Why should we believe you when there’s nothing here to back it up?”

Simone’s smile collapsed. “But there was. I swear. I saw the tracks.”

“The rain!” Isabel gasped, startling everyone. “The rain washed away the tracks!”

“Bravo,” said Alastair with a mock clap. “Did you come up with that all on your own?”

Isabel ignored him and knelt on the ground. She stared at the mud with a sense of awe, running her hands over the wet earth like she was about to write it an ode.

“That was her plan all along,” she whispered reverently. “The rain wasn’t just a symbol. It was a plot necessity.”

“Yes!” said Darius, kneeling beside her until they were both fondling the mud. “That’s the real reason we’re still here. Why she hasn’t been able to let us go.”

Their eyes met and something passed between them. A moment of shared clarity.

“She had to wait for rain!” exclaimed Isabel.

“Not just for the tracks, though,” Darius added with growing excitement, “for the landslide too. The residue on the rocks. She needed rain to wash away the evidence.”

The two were off in their own world, and once again Simone was an outsider looking in.

“She thought she could count on it,” said Isabel. “The weather apps had predicted rain all weekend, and January is the peak of the rainy season in California.”

“But that was just one of the many things that went wrong,” said Darius.

“Like you trying to sabotage her plan,” Isabel said.

“And the pills that didn’t flush,” he added.

“And Evelyn finding the tire tracks,” said Isabel. “That’s why she was attacked. She was getting too close.”

“To what?” Simone asked impatiently, bursting through their little bubble.

Darius and Isabel shared another knowing look before launching back to their feet.

“The killer’s lair!” they said in unison, right before, somewhere behind them, a twig snapped.

Chapter Seventy-Three

Jade screamed and spun around, ready to confront a murderer.

“I’m unarmed,” Bennett joked as he emerged from the trees, hands raised in the air, his dark blond hair slick with rain.

Simone snatched up a tree branch and wielded it at him. “Stay back!”

Bennett laughed. “Your choice of weaponry is declining.”

“How did you get out?” Simone demanded.

“Someone unlocked the door,” Bennett said.

“Who?” asked Jade, terror gripping her throat.

“Who do you think?” Darius strode toward Bennett, looking like he was about to punch him in the face. But he simply glared at him, eyes blazing through the rain. “Did you see her?”

“Who? Evelyn?” Bennett asked.

“No! The writer!”

Bennett sighed. “Oh, we’re back on that again?”

“Apparently,” Alastair muttered.

Darius turned to the rest of the group. “Don’t you see? She let him out to distract us. She doesn’t want us to follow the tracks.”

“There are no tracks!” cried Alastair, shouting to be heard over the downpour.

“Wait a minute.” Simone reeled on Bennett. “If you’re out, then where’s Evelyn?”

Bennett shrugged. “Fuck if I know. As soon as the door was unlocked, I followed you here.”

“We have to check on Evelyn!” Simone said urgently. “He might have used this opportunity to finish her off.”

“Simone!” Darius shouted. “For the last time, Bennett didn’t attack Evelyn. The writer did.”

“And we’ve left her all alone up there!” Jade gasped, turning back toward the monastery.

“Don’t!” Darius warned. “She wants you to go. She’s trying to divert us.”

“But Evelyn—” Jade began.

“Evelyn’s not in danger,” Isabel assured them with a startling certainty.

“How do you know?” asked Simone.

“Because the writer brought her here to vindicate her, not kill her,” said Isabel. “She only knocked her out to keep her from following those tracks.”

“Which is why we have to find out where they lead!” said Darius.

“Why?” Jade cried. “So she can attack us too? Maybe even kill us?”

“She won’t kill us,” resolved Isabel. “She brought us here to reveal secrets. To right wrongs. The only person she wanted dead was McCloud.”

“But she killed Marjorie to protect herself!” Simone reminded them. “Why not us?”

“Because there’s too many of us,” said Darius. “She can’t cover up that many deaths. That’s why we have to stick together. It’s our best defense against her.”

Darius’s words hung in the air, heavy with conviction. But Jade wasn’t convinced. Her stomach was in knots. She desperately wanted to summon Jasmine for help, but she was still gone.

“We have to find out where those tracks lead,” Darius repeated. “Confronting her is the only way out of this.”

“For the last time,” cried Alastair, arms flailing, “how are we supposed to find out where the tracks lead if there are no bloody tracks?”

That’s when Jade heard it. Almost drowned out by the sound of the pummeling rain. A quiet little Meow. She glanced to her right, where Dexter sat on the wet earth, soaked to the skin, and looking none too pleased about it.

“What are you doing out here?” she whispered. “Go back inside where it’s dry.”

“Meow,” he replied. But it sounded like something else. It sounded like Over here.

She stepped closer, a chill running through her, as if she already knew what she would find.

And there it was. Right beside Dexter’s left paw. Half buried in the mud and, up until a few moments ago, concealed by the branch that Simone had picked up. Jade wiped away the rainwater blurring her vision and crouched to examine the small green object, nearly fluorescent against the dark mud. Not a tire track. But possibly even better. Because this couldn’t be washed away by the rain. And Evelyn knew that.

Jade’s head popped up, her gaze scanning the earth beneath the canopy of trees, somehow knowing what she would find before it came into view. The next one was cotton candy pink. Then lemon drop yellow.

“Dexter, you’re a genius,” she praised, patting the cat’s wet head. He squirmed out of reach and bolted into the trees.

“Look!” she called to the others, pointing to the trail that led deeper into the woods.

The group gathered around, inhaling a collective breath.

“Are those…” Bennett asked, leaning in to get a better look.

“Yes,” said Jade, feeling like an author who’d been digging through manuscript pages for days, searching for a single plot-turning sentence. A literary needle in a haystack. “They’re jelly beans.”

Darius led the way, following the trail in silence. Every rustle of a leaf and snap of a twig made them all flinch in terror of a homicidal writer lurking in the trees. The rain intensified by the minute, like it, too, was trying to hold them back.

Some of the jelly beans had faded in the downpour, but Darius was still able to follow Evelyn’s path. Step by step, bean by bean, they navigated the candy breadcrumbs until the trees thinned and the trail came to an end at the base of the monastery’s stone façade.

“Oh, good,” muttered Alastair. “We went in a bloody circle.”

“Not quite,” said Isabel, her head tipped back. “Look where we are.”

Darius glanced up into the driving rain and shivered at the sight of the imposing structure rising into the sky above them, disappearing behind the clouds.

The tracks had led them straight to the base of the south bell tower.

Darius knew what came next. He strode forward and desperately ran his hands along the building’s exterior, fingers probing every crevice of the glistening stone.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bennett asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing!” Darius shouted back, stopping only to wipe rain from his face. “I’m searching for the hidden entrance.”

For a long time, everyone just stared at him, wearing matching expressions of incredulity.

Everyone except Isabel.

“You know,” she said, strolling over to a nearby tree, “secret rooms are a popular trope in fantasy novels too.” She caressed the knots in the wood like she was fondling a beloved pet. “The entrances are often concealed in forests, drawing on classic themes of nature as magic.”

She casually pressed her finger into a shallow hollow carved into the tree’s mighty trunk and the air around them started to quiver in response. A soft rumbling sound echoed off the ancient walls of the monastery. The solid stone façade before them was suddenly no longer solid. It was splitting open, some hidden mechanism coming to life. A seam in the wall—previously disguised as weathered stone and mortar—yawned open.

Chapter Seventy-Four

The hidden elevator was a relic from another time—ancient mechanisms and rusting pulleys. As Darius pushed open the iron cage door and stared at the tiny space within, his lungs caught fire. His vision was a collage of shadows, blurring and darkening in a disturbing strobe light effect.

Every phobia he’d once written off as a clever character trait was suddenly back. Suddenly real again. Because he was real again. He shut his eyes and tried to breathe.

“Darius.” Isabel’s voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a tunnel. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t do this.” He scrambled back, hands on his knees, sucking in air.

Isabel was beside him in an instant. “Darius, this elevator goes to the killer’s lair.”

“I know,” he said.

“So what are you waiting for?”

Good question. What the hell was he waiting for? A green light? A lightning bolt from the sky? The words Darius sucked in a deep breath and stepped into the elevator to be typed on the page by someone else’s hand? Because that’s what was supposed to happen now. It was in the formula. He was supposed to overcome his fears, storm the killer’s lair, and confront the villain.

It sounded so easy when he’d written it in The Bestseller Formula. It was so easy when it wasn’t you. When it wasn’t your life on the line, your fears to overcome, your villain to confront.

It was so easy when it was fiction.

Maybe that was the problem. Darius had lived too long in a world of fiction. A world of carefully constructed plot points, each one specifically designed to lead to the next and the next until the murder is solved and the detective saves the day. But real life wasn’t a series of plot points. It was chaotic and unpredictable and full of crippling fears that weren’t always overcome by the end.

He stared into the empty elevator cage, suddenly feeling not the group’s eyes on him, but his mother’s. Those dark, disapproving, disappointed, never-satisfied, never-believed-in-him eyes.

This is what you’re doing with your life now, Darius? All the opportunities I’ve given you, and you want to solve fake murders for a living?

“I’m not going up there,” he vowed.

“What?” Isabel cried. “You’re just going to let her win? Let her get away with murder?”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to confront her. She’s a murderer.”

“What happened to the man who wanted nothing more than to take her down? Expose the flaws in her story? Sabotage her plot?”

“That was when there was a plot and I was just a character in it. We’re not trapped in a novel with a fictional killer. We’re trapped in a monastery with a real killer. And I’m not a real detective.”

“And yet, you still found her,” said Jade.

“What?” Darius spun toward the facilitator.

“If this isn’t a novel, then you were never supposed to find her.” Jade looked to the others for support. “Right?”

“That’s right,” Isabel confirmed, blinking water from her eyes. “If this isn’t a novel, then there is no Step 11. There are no steps at all.”

Darius’s head began to throb. “But there are. We saw them. She plotted it with the formula.”

“But the formula ends with the killer getting caught,” Simone said. “Why would she do that?”

“She wouldn’t,” Isabel agreed. “Because she’s not using the formula to write a murder. She’s using it to get away with one.”

Darius shivered as a devastating realization crushed his chest. “That’s why she chose me. Not because I had the ability to catch her, but because I didn’t. She needed a detective who would expose the dark truths but who wouldn’t go the distance and expose her. Because he was too afraid.” His knees gave out and he sank into the dirt. “She made the right choice. I’ve never finished a story in my life. Why would I be able to finish this one?” He drew in a breath, but it felt empty and worthless in his lungs. “She chose me because she knew I’d let her get away with it. Because she knew I’d fail.”

Darius closed his eyes, feeling the resignation sink into him, surrendering to the harsh reality that had been following him this whole time, like a dark shadow he couldn’t shake.

Isabel knelt beside him. “Or maybe the choice was never hers to begin with.”

Darius opened his eyes. “What?”

“Remember what you said in the library?” she asked. “About the writer having a maternal energy? That’s because as an author, you have to love your characters like your own children. They’re little pieces of your soul that you break off and send out into the world.”

“You think she loves us?” Darius snorted. “She sure has a funny way of expressing it.”

Isabel sighed. “I know it feels like she’s betrayed us over and over, but in reality, we’re the ones who betrayed her. That’s how it always happens. It’s the inescapable paradox of writing a novel. It’s the author’s job to create characters who feel so real they leap off the page. But the more real they become, the less likely they are to behave the way you want them to. Like children, they grow up. They become the people they’re meant to become, and whether those are the people you planned or not, all you can do is let them go. It’s the hardest thing to do.” She took Darius’s hand in hers. “We’re the ones with the choice. It’s our story whether she likes it or not. It’s always been ours.”

Somewhere deep within, beneath the insufficiencies and insecurities, her words landed. Softly, like a pebble coming to rest at the bottom of a deep, tranquil sea.

Darius stood and wiped the dirt from his pants. Once again, he shone his flashlight into the hidden opening in the wall.

“She never expected me to find this,” he echoed Jade’s words. “She never expected us to find her.” He turned to the others, his fellow pawns in her game. Love interests and red herrings and scapegoats. All of them just like him. Built out of safe assumptions. Constructed from predictable patterns. Chosen for their likelihood to follow the script and stay safely on the page.

Darius smiled and stepped into the elevator. “Let’s go surprise the shit out of her.”

They’re coming. It’s really over now. I failed. I made one last-ditch effort to distract them. A final Hail Mary pass, but it missed, just like all the others.

Evelyn and her stupid jelly beans and her stupid cat!

With wild panting breaths, I cast my gaze around the room. My safe haven. My fortress of solitude. There’s no time to pack up my things or try to hide the evidence. They’ll be here any minute.

There’s no time.

There’s no time.

THERE’S NO TIME!

Finally, my attention lands on my desk, where papers and notecards are strewn chaotically across my beat-up old laptop. My trusty friend that has gotten me through so many dark nights of the soul.

And then, like I’m standing in the eye of a hurricane, everything suddenly goes quiet and still. The chaos in my mind and heart settles. My breathing grows deep and even as a single rallying thought flutters into my mind.

Save the book.

Chapter Seventy-Five

The ancient mechanisms ground ominously as the elevator began its slow ascent. There were so many wet bodies pressed against Bennett in the darkness, he couldn’t even see their faces.

“I think we’re inside the south bell tower,” said Isabel, pointing her flashlight through the bars of the cage. “Look, there’s a marking for every floor.”

Bennett followed the beam as it glided across the number 2 painted on the stone wall. “How far are we going?”

“All the way up,” Darius said through gritted teeth.

The elevator groaned as it continued its ascent. Every churn of the old pulleys made the cage sway and dip like a carnival ride with missing screws. When the number 5 appeared in the beam of Isabel’s flashlight, Bennett wrenched the contraption to a halt with a deafening screech.

The cage swung as it came to rest, suspended in the middle of the dark shaft. Above them, the intricate lattice of the elevator’s mechanisms nestled into the ceiling.

Isabel opened the cage door and shone her flashlight along the wall, locating a lever jutting from the stone. She gave it a yank that shook the elevator and made several people shriek.

As the wall split apart, Bennett’s muscles tensed, ready to fight off a cold-blooded killer coming at him with a knife or a candlestick or another fire poker. But as he stepped off the elevator, into the small attic of the south bell tower, his fear dissolved into disbelief.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered.

The room was dark and foreboding, with a musty odor seeping from the walls. Isabel took in the cobwebs clinging to the low rafters and the sense of abandonment lingering in the air, as if someone had just left.

Every surface was a clutter of activity. Index cards pinned to the wall and Post-it notes stuck to the desk. Near the window hung maps of the monastery, littered with colorful scribbles, intricate markings, and dashed lines crisscrossing between rooms. Beside them were detailed timelines stretching across days and weeks, with tiny dots to mark significant events: Invitations sent. Guests arrive. Road closed. First body found.

Isabel shivered with a strange sense of déjà vu. She felt like she’d seen all this before. Maybe because she had. Not as dots on a plot graph, but as events she’d lived through over the past few days.

“Oh god,” Darius said, pointing to the far wall. Isabel drew in a sharp breath.

Nine pieces of paper hung in a perfect grid. They looked like FBI wanted posters—names typed in bold letters beneath mug shot–style photographs of faces. Their faces. Two people had been x-ed out with a red marker, like the slash of an editor’s pen—Ian McCloud and Marjorie Ivanov.

“But where is her body?” Isabel asked, glancing around with a growing sense of dread. “I thought it would be here.”

“What the hell! This is about me!” Simone had pulled a manila folder from the trash bin. “ ‘Obsessed with sex,’ ” she read aloud from the file. “ ‘Uses intimacy as a weapon and a coping strategy. Needs to realize her own self-worth outside of the opinions of men. Easily triggered!’ ” With a roar, she crumpled the page into a ball, threw it onto the ground, and stomped on it.

“This looks like the office of a serial killer,” Bennett said, casually opening desk drawers.

“No.” Isabel glanced at the stained coffee cups, scraps of torn paper, uncapped pens in various colors, and a half-empty bottle of bourbon. “It looks like the office of a writer.”

“Who’s not here,” Bennett remarked with a hint of annoyance.

“And neither is her laptop,” Darius said, pointing to the power cable plugged into the wall. It coiled up from the floor, through a clutter of paper and protein bar wrappers, and hung limp over the edge of the desk, disconnected like a headless snake.

“Maybe she figured out we were coming and bolted,” said Jade.

“But how did she leave?” Isabel wondered, peering around for another door.

“I’d imagine through that.” Bennett gestured at a half-open window that creaked and clattered in the stormy wind, droplets of rain dripping on the scuffed wooden floor.

Isabel ran to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of their adversary, but all she could see was rain pummeling against the slick stone-tile roof.

“What is all this?” Simone asked in amazement, still pulling stacks of paper from the trash. “ ‘Weather patterns for Central California region—January through April,’ ‘Architectural history of medieval European monasteries,’ ‘Private Branch Exchange (PBX) Phone System Schematics.’ ” She peered back into the bin. “There’s tons of stuff like that in here.”

Bennett snorted. “Talk about an info dump.”

Isabel opened a tall cabinet in the back of the room and gasped, drawing everyone’s attention to the shelves inside. There stood the monitors. Four in total. Each screen was divided into a grid of nine boxes that cycled between camera feeds: Guest rooms, stairwells, the kitchen, the lounge, the courtyard, even the gazebo and the hot springs. Dozens of views of not just the monastery, but the treacherous mountain road leading up to it.

“How does she have views of the road?” Isabel asked incredulously.

“It’s got to be CCTV,” said Darius. “Cameras hidden in the trees.”

“But don’t those need a hardwired connection?” asked Bennett.

“Yes,” said Darius. “The cameras we found in the quotes run on Wi-Fi, which means their range is limited. The hardwired cabling was probably installed along the road during the renovation. But it runs underground. We’d never see it.”

“So, you’re saying this monastery had internet access the whole time?” Simone whipped out her phone to check for a signal. “Why can’t I connect to it, then?”

“She’s obviously been controlling access somehow.” Darius marched over to the desk and began yanking open drawers. “Turning it on and off to suit the story. There’s got to be some kind of router or network switch or—” He pulled open the bottom drawer and froze, his eyes going wide. “No,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”

“What?” Isabel hurried over, the floorboards creaking beneath her.

He reached slowly into the drawer, unearthing a thick stack of printed pages secured by a coil binding and marked up with a riot of colorful sticky notes.

“Looks like a manuscript,” Isabel remarked.

Darius cradled the document in his hands almost reverently, as if he’d excavated some fragile artifact from a long-lost civilization.

Isabel peered at the cover page and her blood turned to ice.

Deception’s Maze

by Ian McCloud

“Why does that sound so familiar?” asked Jade.

“Because it was supposed to come out two years ago,” said Darius. “But the publisher canceled it.”

Chapter Seventy-Six

Darius gripped the manuscript tighter, feeling the final threads start to connect in his mind.

“Let me see that.” Simone snatched the document from his hands. “It’s impossible,” she whispered, staring at the cover page. “Only his publisher had a copy. Ian wouldn’t let anyone else read it. He was too upset that it had been canceled.” She pinned Darius with an accusing stare. “How did this writer woman get it?”

He snatched the manuscript back. “I don’t know!” But it was a lie. He did know. Or he almost did. He could feel the answer dancing on the edges of his consciousness, just out of reach.

“What makes you so sure this writer is a woman?” Bennett asked Darius.

“It was…just a hunch I had at one point.” He struggled to explain, doubt creeping in. “I don’t know for sure.”

He flipped through the manuscript. At first everything was a blur of words. Then, slowly, one by one, his eyes picked out names from the pages. Familiar names.

Molly Kent…Aditi Nair…Jesper Hollingsworth…David Kline…Beatrice Winters.

“The guest list,” he whispered. “All those name tags still sitting in the foyer—the people who never showed up. They’re characters in this book.” He sucked in a breath. “It’s a tribute! No one got to meet those characters because the book was canceled. They never ‘showed up.’ ”

“Why would the killer pay tribute to McCloud’s canceled book?” asked Bennett.

Darius felt the gears turning in his mind, lining up like dials on a combination lock.

Click. Click. Click. CLICK.

“Because it wasn’t his book,” he said.

“What?” asked Simone incredulously.

Darius closed the manuscript and ran his fingers over the byline on the title page.

“Ian McCloud didn’t write this.” The truth thrummed through him, both shocking and liberating. He thought of the man he’d met here at this conference. The angry, belligerent drunk who was nothing like the vulnerable, insightful artist Darius had come to know through his emails. Or the clever, sophisticated writer Darius celebrated every week on his YouTube channel.

It was as if there were two Ian McClouds. The face and the voice. The legend and the author. The fiction and the reality.

Darius’s gaze snapped to Bennett. “Did you ever see McCloud writing any of his books? Like actually physically typing them?”

Bennett faltered, trying to keep up. “No. He was very private about his work. He never let me sit in on any of his writing sessions. Wait, are you saying—”

“Yes,” said Darius, more certain than he’d ever been in his life. “Ian McCloud was a pen name.”

“But that’s not a secret,” said Simone. “His real name was Robert Shapiro.”

“Yes, but Robert Shapiro wasn’t Ian McCloud.”

“Huh?” said Simone.

“That’s why he didn’t recognize me from our email exchange,” Darius muttered to himself. “I thought he was just drunk. But he’d never met me. Because I wasn’t emailing with him.”

“And that’s why he was always fucking up the details of his books!” Bennett exclaimed.

“Because he didn’t write a single one of them.” Darius dropped the manuscript on the desk and turned to address the rest of the group. “The Ian McCloud we all know—the one on the jacket flaps and the red carpets and the TV interviews—is a front. The dead man in that freezer downstairs is the face of Ian McCloud but not the voice. The real writer has been hiding behind him this whole time, letting him take all the credit, all the glory, all the fame. But it got out of control. He got out of control. With the affairs and the scandals and then—” He tapped the manuscript. “The final straw.”

“The canceled book,” said Isabel.

“ ‘The best thing I’ve ever written.’ ” Darius quoted the email he’d received two years ago. “ ‘And now no one will have a chance to read it.’ ”

“Revenge and secrecy,” said Isabel. “Two of the most popular motives.”

“This revenge story has been two years in the making.” Darius glanced around the office with a renewed sense of awe, taking in the pages of scattered notes and ideas. “Two years spent brainstorming, plotting and replotting, outlining and re-outlining, researching every detail, every twist and turn.” He reached out and touched the timeline hanging on the wall. “Writing a murder.”

“Hold up.” Jade raised her hands like she was trying to slow down the pace of the world. “If McCloud didn’t write his own books, then who did?”

CLANG!

Everyone froze as the deep, menacing sound reverberated through the small attic, bouncing off the walls and rumbling the floors.

They all turned to each other with befuddled looks, mentally counting heads. Darius glanced from Jade to Isabel to Bennett to Simone to the empty space where another person should have stood. Five people where there were once six.

When did he slip away? How could they not have noticed? He was with them in the forest. Was he with them in the elevator? Suddenly Darius couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the missing member of their group. And now the giant void sucked him in like gravity.

CLANG!

Darius’s heart pounded as deep within the monastery, several floors below, like a sinister summoning, the ancient gong was struck again.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

The cage door slammed shut.

The control wheel was wrenched into motion.

The elevator plummeted in a stomach-dropping descent to the first floor.

No words were exchanged. No words were needed. They had become one mind. One body. One character. One point of view. Spurred on by the persistent clanging of the gong. All their thoughts and memories and perspectives had merged into a single plot-twisting conclusion.

It had been the agent all along. Watching them from his attic office late at night. Planting pill bottles and flash drives and forged notes. Tampering with motorcycle controls and propane tanks. Disguising himself so Evelyn wouldn’t recognize him when he attacked her in the woods.

Thirty years of being invisible, of doing all the work, writing all the words, and watching someone else get all the credit. This was his revenge. He’d written one last murder.

Ian McCloud’s final story.

Darius reached the foyer first, the others not far behind. They piled in one by one, gaping at the man standing on the platform beside the Tibetan gong, holding the mallet in one hand and a full drink in the other.

“Wonderful,” said Alastair, raising his glass. “Thank you all for coming.” He looked like a best man at a wedding, poised onstage to give a big speech.

Darius peered at the others. Everyone was at a loss for words. Quite a feat for a group of writers.

“I take it you’ve found the office,” Alastair said, returning the mallet to its holster. He was so calm. So matter-of-fact. He clucked his tongue as he lowered into a chair positioned on the platform like a throne. “An unfortunate setback, to be sure. But lucky for me, not an insurmountable one.”

“You motherfucker!” shouted Simone, the first of them to find the right word. She lunged toward the agent with rage in her eyes, but he held up his glass as if it were a shield.

“Uh-uh,” he warned. “I wouldn’t come any closer. I’ve rigged the entire foyer with explosives and only I know where they are.” He winked at Darius. “Yes, the same explosives that were used to trigger the landslide. If I were you, I’d stay very, very still.”

“He’s bluffing,” declared Bennett.

Alastair shrugged. “I might be. But why take the chance with such a pretty face?”

“How could you do this?” Simone roared.

“Do what exactly, my dear?” Alastair crossed his legs and rested his glass on his lap.

“You tried to frame me for murder!” Bennett growled.

“And me!” cried Isabel.

“You used me!” Simone shouted. “You used all of us.”

Alastair tilted his head like a confused puppy. “In what way?”

“Oh, shove it,” Darius snapped, growing impatient with the antics. “We know you’re the writer! And the killer! We know you’ve been writing McCloud’s books for years, and now you’ve plotted his murder like a mystery novel.”

“Mmm,” said Alastair, stroking his chin like a cartoon villain. “Interesting theory. If only I could write. I wouldn’t need to rely on you crazy lot to make a living.”

Darius exchanged a confused look with Isabel. Was he trying to mess with their heads again?

“You always seem to be just off the mark, YouTube Boy.” Alastair tapped his forehead condescendingly. “So quick to jump to conclusions. Thinking you can rely on your plotting instincts. That is, after all, why you were invited. Those instincts were necessary. But in this case, wrong.”

Darius opened his mouth to ask a question, but Alastair was ready with the answer.

“No, I’m not the writer. I’m the writer’s agent.”

More baffled looks bounced around the group.

Alastair took another sip of his drink. “My client needed help with the story, so I offered to assist. Like any good agent would.”

“I don’t understand.” Darius squeezed his temples. “How did you—”

“You see, agents have a very unusual job,” Alastair went on. “We’re not quite editors, we’re definitely not writers, but we’re usually pretty good at helping the writer tease out the details of the plot and then making sure they stay on track.”

The truth hit Darius like a blow to the gut. “You’re the plant,” he whispered. “Damn, I should have seen that coming.”

“The what?” Isabel asked.

“He’s not really a guest,” Darius explained. “He’s an accomplice. An inside man. He’s been working with the killer to make sure things go to plan and we stay off the real killer’s trail.”

“Not bad,” Alastair said with an air of mock praise. “It only took you four hundred and sixty-seven pages to figure it out.”

Darius grimaced, feeling the insult like a stab on top of a bleeding stab wound.

“Is that why you decided on the search groups?” Isabel asked with sudden realization.

“My client needed you to be paired with the right people in order to find all the right clues,” explained Alastair.

“And that’s why you convinced me to look closer at Evelyn!” said Simone. “Because you knew it would lead me to the email in her locket and then to Bennett.” She gasped. “You planted Evelyn’s locket in the lounge knowing I’d find it.”

“Darling, I didn’t need to plant it. It fell off on its own.” He took another sip. “After I tampered with the clasp, of course.”

“And your car wouldn’t start,” added Darius. “Because the writer had to make sure no one could leave. Did you even have car trouble?”

Alastair scoffed. “My precious Jaguar? Have car trouble? Please. I told my client it was the most implausible part of the whole plot, but you were all far too eager to destroy evidence and crack the case; you didn’t even bat an eye.”

“So, you were never really disinvited?” Bennett asked.

“Of course not. I’m the guest of honor!” He raised his drink like he was toasting himself. “The story couldn’t have happened without me here to wrangle you all like little sheep.”

“But you were so upset about the mix-up with the invitations,” said Jade. “You threatened to sue!”

Alastair stood up to take a bow. “Four years of drama at university. Not bad, eh? And my father thought it would be a waste of a good education.”

“I don’t get it,” said Jade. “What about Pen Ultimate Writers? Does it even exist?”

“Technically, it exists,” said Alastair. “At least on paper. It’s amazing how far you can get with a nice website and a bestselling author lined up to speak. My client went through a lot of trouble to make the premise plausible. As any good author would.”

“So, the writer hired me?” asked Jade.

“Not just you, darling. My client invited you all here. You were all essential to the plot.” He met their eyes one by one. “And I think you each know why.”

Everyone cast their gazes to the floor.

“That’s why you kept insisting I was crazy,” whispered Darius with an incredulous shake of his head. “Every time I even mentioned the idea of a writer, you were the first to shoot it down.”

“Well, obviously.” He chuckled. “I couldn’t have you gallivanting about the place distracting my client. I had to make sure the book got finished. Otherwise, I don’t get paid.”

“So, there is a book?” Darius asked.

“Of course there’s a book!” said Alastair. “You don’t honestly think my client would go through all this trouble to plot a murder and not capitalize on it, do you?”

“I was right, then!” Darius said. “We are in a mystery novel.”

Alastair considered this. “You were both right and wrong.”

“I don’t get it,” Simone complained.

Darius peered at the framed quote lying on the floor near his feet.

“Fiction is not an escape from reality, but a lens through which we can view it more clearly ”

It was the clue that had been right in front of him the whole time, just like good clues were supposed to be.

“Every work of fiction has some truth in it,” he realized aloud. “Some more than others.”

“It’s a life lesson all writers need to learn,” said Alastair with a nonchalant shrug.

“But Ian is really dead, right?” Simone asked, glancing toward the kitchen as if she expected him to emerge from the freezer and take a bow too.

“Thank heavens, yes,” said Alastair. “And good bloody riddance, too. I must admit, when I first heard the idea for the book, I was hesitant. But my client is very persuasive.”

“So, it’s true that McCloud didn’t write his own books,” Darius said, trying to cling to a single thread of logic. “Your client wrote them. That’s why McCloud was murdered?”

“McCloud was murdered because he was a terrible person,” Alastair snapped. “He left a wake of tragedy and heartache everywhere he went.” His gaze darted momentarily to Isabel, then to Jade before continuing. “And I did nothing to stop it. I was complicit for too long. That’s why I went along with the plan. To repent for my own sins. And to stop that monster from destroying any more lives. Everything that was done here was done for a reason.”

“What about Marjorie?” Isabel demanded. “What reason was there to kill her?”

Alastair’s face collapsed with regret. “Ah, yes, the housekeeper. Sadly, she was a plot device.”

“A what?!” Isabel spat.

Alastair swirled his drink. “You see, my client needed a second body for the Halfway Twist. It’s quite standard, as you know. Plus, the housekeeper was getting in the way, and her death provided a believable reason to search the monastery. So, two birds, one stone.” He pursed his lips. “Or rather, one push.”

“You mean the writer just killed her off?” cried Isabel, horrified. “An innocent woman?”

Alastair shrugged, looking only mildly unsettled by the confession. “Sometimes you have to sacrifice characters for the sake of a good story.”

“But she wasn’t a character!” Isabel screamed. “She was a real person!”

“Eh.” Alastair shrugged again.

With a roar, Isabel launched at the agent.

“No!” Everyone screamed at once, some already ducking for cover.

Darius grabbed her arm to freeze her in place. He held his breath as their weight settled back onto the floor. “Don’t let him bait you. And whatever you do, don’t move your feet again.”

“Where is she?” Isabel bellowed at the agent. “Where did you stash her?” She turned to Darius with tears streaming down her face. “She was innocent!”

“I know,” Darius assured her. “And they’ll both pay for what they did. I’ll make sure of it.”

“How exactly do you plan to do that, YouTube Boy?” Alastair called from his throne.

Darius stood up straighter. “Like you said, I know plot. This is the confrontation scene that always comes at the end of Step 11. And you’ve just made the mistake every villain makes in that scene. You’ve told us everything. You’ve let your ego get in the way. You’re so damn proud of how you’ve gotten away with it all, you can’t help but brag. Pride is the downfall of every antagonist. We all know the truth now. We’ll go to the police. That’s five witness statements against one.”

“Phew.” Alastair wiped invisible sweat from his brow. “That was a lot. Do you need to sit down?”

Darius held his tongue and his ground. He knew how these scenes worked. The cheeky, overconfident bad guy throws out one sarcastic remark after the next, trying to knock the detective off his game. But it wouldn’t work.

“Unfortunately, once again you’re making quite a few faulty assumptions,” said Alastair.

“Like what?” Darius asked, knowing the challenge would only entice him to confess more.

“For starters,” Alastair began, counting on his fingers, “you’re assuming I’m the villain. Which I’m not.”

“You killed two people!” Isabel shouted.

“Second,” Alastair went on, undeterred, “you’re assuming the police will believe you. Which they won’t.”

Darius snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

“And third. You’re assuming I’ve told you everything. Which I haven’t.”

“Oh my god!” Simone cried with sudden realization. “The police! We have to go back to the writer’s office and figure out how to turn on the internet!”

She turned, preparing to race back to the elevator, but was halted by another chorus of “No!” “Stop!” “Don’t move!”

“He has to be lying!” Simone said, attempting to turn without moving her feet.

“Do you really want to take that chance?” Darius asked.

“But we have to call the police!” she cried.

“There’s no need for that, my dear,” said Alastair. “Help is already on the way.”

Simone darted a skeptical look at the agent.

“You see,” continued Alastair, “while you’ve all been running about the place, searching for secret rooms and nosing around where you don’t belong, my client and I have been busy. Getting the highway department to clear the bridge, cleaning up after ourselves, calling the police. They’re on their way now.” He turned to Darius, looking smug. “I told you—I’m not the villain. So I won’t be paying for anything. Only the real bad guys will pay for what they did.” He cut a sharp glance at Bennett. “Like people who think they can take credit for another writer’s work.”

Bennett’s fists clenched.

“Believe you me,” Alastair went on, “this story will have a satisfying ending. Justice will be served. As YouTube Boy said, crimes cannot go unpunished.” He turned his head ever so slightly, and Darius was surprised to see his gaze land, once again, on Jade. “And someone here has to pay for the murder of Jasmine Palmer.”

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Jade couldn’t breathe. Under the agent’s piercing gaze, she felt like she was standing in the crosshairs of a sniper rifle.

“W-w-what do you mean?” she stammered.

“I think you know,” Alastair said, raising his brow. “Your twin sister was murdered.”

“Jasmine Palmer is your sister?” Bennett cried at the same time Darius asked, “Jasmine Palmer is dead?”

Jade could only nod, her voice dried up under the scorching scrutiny of Alastair’s stare.

“Yes, dead,” Alastair confirmed. “Another life ruined by Ian fucking McCloud.” He caught Jade’s eyes again, answering her unspoken question. “Of course I knew. You tried to keep it a secret, but my client has contacts in the Ann Arbor police department. Jasmine’s killer was never brought to justice. That’s why you’re here.”

“Killer? Murdered? What are you talking about?” Simone asked, but Jade could barely hear anything over the roaring in her ears, like water building up against a poorly constructed dam.

“I’m talking about the truth!” Alastair bellowed, the first break in his cool façade. “She deserves that much.” He took a calming breath before continuing. “I think everyone would be very interested to learn exactly how Jasmine Palmer died.” He turned back to Jade. “Don’t you?”

The dam broke.

“I did it!” Jade cried, tears streaming down her face. “It was me! I killed her! It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I’m the bad guy. I’m the villain! I’m the one who should pay.”

A hush fell over the room. Even Alastair was rendered miraculously silent. Most of the faces around her bore confusion, some even traces of sympathy. But she didn’t deserve sympathy. She deserved to go to prison. The truth was, she’d been paying for her crime for two years. She would never stop paying for what she did to Jasmine.

“It was me,” she choked, barely able to get the words out. “I accused Ian McCloud. Jasmine didn’t want to say anything. She just wanted to forget about it. But when she told me what happened at that writing conference, what McCloud did to her—” Her voice caught. “I was livid. I told her she had to speak up, but she refused. She’d just signed with an agent and didn’t want to jeopardize her chance of selling the book. Technically, we wrote it together but I didn’t want my name on it. Jasmine was always the one who cared about that kind of stuff. I just loved to write, but she wanted the fame. That’s why she wouldn’t report him. She said she cared too much about the book to rock the boat. I said fuck the book! Fuck the boat! Ian McCloud should not get away with what he did! I tried to convince her to speak up, but she wouldn’t…” Her voice was swallowed by sobs.

“It was you?” Alastair asked in disbelief, finally stumbling upon a detail of the story he didn’t know. Because no one knew. Jade had made certain of it. “You spoke to the press?”

She sniffled. “When we were little, we made a pact. We swore we’d never do that thing twins always do in movies: Impersonate each other. Switch places. But this seemed more important than a pact. So I called a reporter. I arranged an interview. Jasmine was the one registered at the conference. I had to give her name so they could verify she was there, but they promised they wouldn’t use it in the story. I told them what she told me. But I didn’t know everything. I wasn’t there. So I filled in the gaps with what I’d seen on social media. But I messed up. I got too many things wrong. No one believed me. No one believed her. Then somehow her name got out, and old boyfriends started coming out of the woodwork and saying these horrible things about her. It all got so out of control, it was too late to come clean. I didn’t know the world would turn on her like that. I didn’t know what horrors would be unleashed. I was just trying to protect her. I never expected her to…to…”

“She took her own life,” Isabel realized softly, voicing the words Jade never had the courage to say aloud. “The backlash was too much. She couldn’t escape.”

“She stopped talking to me,” Jade choked out. “She was furious. I didn’t blame her. But then she stopped reading my texts, so I went to check on her. That’s when I found her…” She felt bile rise up in her throat. “In the bathroom. She swallowed pills. I tried to save her but she was already gone. I should have listened to her. I never should have said anything.”

“I’m sure she forgives you,” Isabel whispered.

But that wasn’t the problem. Jade knew she’d never be able to forgive herself.

“I can prove she was telling the truth,” Alastair said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Jade’s head snapped up. “What?”

Without another word, Alastair reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver object. Its metallic surface glinted in the low light, making it look like a weapon. Several people flinched.

“Another flash drive?” Darius muttered in disbelief. “How many of those things are there?”

“I believe this is what you came for,” Alastair said to Jade, holding the drive up to the light, inspecting it like a jeweler in possession of a rare diamond. “A promise is a promise.” He tossed the drive to her. She barely managed to catch it without moving her feet.

Jade stared at the shimmering object in her hand. It was so beautiful. So full of hope.

The proof you’re looking for will be at this conference.

She wanted so badly to believe it was real. But Alastair had been lying from the start. How could she trust him now? She didn’t think her fractured heart could take another disappointment.

“Ian McCloud inappropriately propositioned your sister,” Alastair said gravely. “When she turned him down, he tried to force himself on her. That drive contains the security footage from the hallway outside McCloud’s hotel room the night of the assault. The cameras weren’t out of commission, as the press had been told. McCloud bribed a security guard to lie and give him the footage. He thought he’d deleted it but there was a copy stored in the cache on his laptop, which he would have known if he’d actually written any of his own books.”

“Remains of the Dark!” Darius blurted out. “That’s how Griggs finds the audio file that disproves the killer’s alibi.”

“Top marks for you,” praised Alastair. “It’s also how my client found the footage on McCloud’s laptop. Without it, there was nothing to prove what really happened that night. There was only the rewritten narrative, edited to protect the accused and his precious reputation.”

Jade closed her fingers tightly around the drive, feeling it press into her skin. All she’d wanted for the past two years, all she’d dreamed about was right here.

“Ian McCloud used his fame and status to get women into bed for years,” Alastair went on, “making promises he never kept. But only one woman had the guts to speak up against him.” He locked eyes with Jade once more. “You are a hero, my dear. Not a villain.”

Tears began to flow again from Jade’s eyes, blurring her vision until the man sitting before her looked more and more like an illusion.

“As for the real villain,” Alastair said, “the person responsible for discrediting your sister—”

“You!” Isabel exploded. “It was you! You killed Jasmine Palmer!”

Startled, Jade whirled around to find Isabel’s furious gaze and accusing finger pointed unmistakably at—

Simone?

“What?” Jade whispered in bewilderment.

“You leaked her name to the press,” said Isabel, “to make it look like her allegations were a calculated PR strategy. You found the holes in her statement and tipped off the media. Then you reached out to her ex-boyfriends, anyone with a bruised ego who could shred her credibility. You buried her. She had no chance of ever being believed after you were done.”

“Is it true?” Jade asked in a broken voice. But Simone wouldn’t meet her eye.

“Of course it’s true!” said Alastair. “McCloud wasn’t about to let Jasmine Palmer ruin his career, charming bloke that he was. So he got this one”—he jerked a thumb at Simone—“his little editor, to rewrite the story for him, painting Jasmine as the master manipulator instead of the victim. Filling the narrative with so much chaos and doubt, it deterred anyone else from speaking out against him for fear of a similar backlash.”

Simone’s hands clenched at her sides, like she was two breaths away from charging the platform and blowing them all to pieces.

“My client delivered the hotel security footage to her on the first night,” Alastair explained. “To show her what she’d done.”

“That was the drive I found at the hot springs!” Darius said with a sharp inhale. “You stole it because it proved that you protected McCloud even though he was guilty. That’s your dark truth.”

Simone’s eyes flashed with fury. “He swore he was innocent! He told me Jasmine was lying to promote her book. He said he never touched her, claimed she threw herself at him. He manipulated me. I didn’t even know about the footage until I got here. I swear.”

“Exactly,” said Alastair as if this proved his point. “That’s why you’re here. My client was insistent that you be given the chance to redeem yourself. To come clean and prove that you’re not a bad person.” He took a sip of his drink, clearly enjoying the moment. “What did you do with the flash drive once you realized you had ruined an innocent woman’s life?”

Simone’s gaze darted anxiously around the room, looking like a criminal chased into a corner.

“You destroyed it,” said Alastair when it became clear she wasn’t going to answer. The implication hung in the air, heavy like a death sentence. “You made your own choice about the character you wanted to be in this story.”

He nodded to the object still clutched in Jade’s fist. “Of course, the drive you destroyed wasn’t the only copy.” He chuckled. “But I’m sure you knew that.”

Jade squeezed her fingers around the flash drive, waiting to feel the relief. The release. The absolution that this little device promised to bring.

But none of it came.

Because Jasmine was still gone. And it was still Jade’s fault.

A soft wailing filled the room. At first Jade thought it was coming from her own mouth. An involuntary outpouring of grief. But then, the sound grew closer. And Jade realized it was not coming from inside her, but from out there, somewhere deep in the mountains.

A siren.

The police.

“Ah, right on time,” said Alastair, a smirk playing on his lips. “That would be my cue to exit.” He stood and set his glass on the arm of the chair. Then as an afterthought, he wiped the rim and surface with his sleeve. “No need to confuse the situation.”

He gave them a quick salute before stepping off the platform and striding toward the front door. Every step he took seemed to reverberate in the tense silence. “I guess this is goodbye.” He slipped on a pair of leather driving gloves before reaching for the door handle. “I would say it was nice knowing you, but I think we’ve all had enough fiction for one weekend.”

“Don’t move,” a voice growled from the shadows, low and menacing.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jade saw a glint of cold steel.

“Close the door. You’re not going anywhere.”

Listen. Can you hear it?

Sirens. Cutting through the tension. Traversing the treacherous mountain road. Such a symbol of hope, that sound. Like modern knights on white steeds, rushing headlong into danger to save the day.

I double-check my work in the office, satisfied with a job well done. It’s been completely cleared out. Every scrap of paper discarded, every book and monitor packed away, every trace of DNA wiped clean. Not even a pushpin or paper clip left behind. It was a lot of work. This place was a mess. Ask any writer who’s locked themselves away to finish a book, they’ll tell you. It’s never a pretty picture.

Thankfully, Alastair did his job well and kept everyone distracted with that ridiculously drawn-out confrontation. God, I’ve always hated those scenes in novels. It’s absurd! Why on earth would the villain sit there, blabbing endlessly, when they could be getting away? It makes no logical sense.

But in our case, it did.

It gave me enough time to pack up my things and finish covering our tracks.

I walk to the doorway and pause, looking back at my little attic room. So many memories made here. So many ups and downs, highs and lows, victories and defeats. Moments when I swore nothing could go wrong. Moments when I swore all was lost. Pages where I thought I was the greatest writer to ever grace the keyboard. Pages where I swore I would never write another decent sentence again.

In other words, I wrote a novel.

And no matter what happens next, I’m proud of what I accomplished. I survived misbehaving characters, weather that wouldn’t cooperate, and so many close calls. Like Isabel nearly catching me in the stairwell, Bennett chasing me down the service hallways, Evelyn finding the old logging road on her hiking map. A little more digging and she would have discovered our secret escape route.

Of course there was that near disaster on the first night when McCloud accidentally saw me pass by the lounge and flipped out, insisting that I followed him here. But it was the other way around. He followed me. After all, I was the one who invited him to speak. Thankfully, he was so drunk and panicked, Bennett assumed he was talking about Simone. Sometimes in writing, your biggest mistakes turn out to be your best plot twists.

With a forlorn sigh, I say a final goodbye to my office. My writer’s cave. I’m going to miss you, old friend. Then I switch off the light and close the door.

I’m just stepping into the elevator when a troubling thought occurs to me. I run back into the office and yank open the top desk drawer. It’s empty, just as it was a moment ago. Because I painstakingly packed up everything. Every note, every scene card, every spreadsheet and character profile. I left nothing behind.

But it’s only now I realize, with a stabbing in my chest, that I never packed my Glock.

Chapter Seventy-Nine

“Back away from the door. That’s it. Slowly. No sudden moves.”

Bennett had never held a real gun before. The weapon felt awkward and clumsy in his grip, but miraculously, as he pointed the barrel at Alastair and guided him back to his chair, Bennett’s hand was as steady as the cold steel clasped in it.

Maybe because his conviction was just as unwavering. His motivations, as a character and a man, were pure and untainted. There was no fucking way he was going to let it end like this. With a room full of witnesses ready to blab to the police about what he’d done. He’d worked too hard and come too far to let his dream be snatched away at the last minute.

“Bennett” came a voice from somewhere in the room. He was pretty sure it was Darius but with his pulse thundering in his ears it was hard to hear anything else. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do,” Bennett replied, amazed at how calm he sounded. Like he was made for this shit. “I deserve that book deal. I may not have written the entire novel, but I worked my ass off for ten fucking years. It’s not my fault the publishing industry doesn’t appreciate my talents.”

Simone snorted and Bennett swung the gun toward her. Impressively, she didn’t flinch. Did she not think he would do it? Oh, he’d do it! He’d kill all of them if he had to. And it was becoming increasingly clear, with every minute that those sirens grew closer, that he did have to.

“If I had just been born a century earlier, I would be a legend by now,” he said, aiming the weapon back at Alastair. “Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Steinbeck. They didn’t have to write for a generation of morons hooked on the continuous dopamine drip of one-minute YouTube Shorts. They didn’t have to compete with the mindless scroll of social media by filling their pages with shallow action scenes and cheap plot devices. Literature used to mean something. It used to be a feast to savor and enjoy. Now it’s a fucking fast-food Happy Meal. Back then, writers didn’t need a ‘formula’ to write a bestseller. They wrote from their fucking soul.” He thumped his chest with a fist.

“Actually, the American classics do follow a formulaic plot structure,” said Darius.

“Shut up.” Bennett waved the gun at him. He, at least, had the decency to flinch.

“What are you going to do, Bennett?” Simone took a bold step toward him that made everyone cower. “We know what you did. Are you really going to kill us all to save your book deal?”

“Why not?” Bennett asked casually. “What’s a few more deaths in the grand scheme of things? I can give it a little Agatha Christie spin. First there were ten and then there were none.”

“Actually, there were only nine of us,” corrected Isabel.

“Ten if you count Dexter,” said Darius. “And that novel does follow the bestseller formula. I analyzed it on my—”

“SHUT UP!” Bennett screamed, then inhaled a deep breath to steady his nerves. He could not let his anger take control. Anger led to mistakes because it activated the primitive brain, which narrowed the mind’s focus. He needed his focus to be as wide-open as the sky.

He exhaled, finding a smooth, steady cadence again. “Maybe I’ll let you take the fall,” he said to Darius. “Kill everyone and then put the gun in your hand. Just like in Serial Intent.” He clucked his tongue. “Oh no, look what the crazy stalker fanboy did.”

The sirens were nearly upon them now. They couldn’t be more than a mile down the road. Even with the twisty mountain pass slowing them down, Bennett had mere minutes left.

“How do you plan to escape?” Simone challenged. “The police are almost here.”

Admittedly he hadn’t thought that far ahead, but it wasn’t hard to puzzle out. The woods around here were vast. He could easily hide out until the coast was clear.

A soft mewing sound broke the silence and Bennett glanced down to see the damn cat weaving in and out of his legs like he was trying to trip him. “Hey! Stop that! Get out of here!” He attempted to kick him but Dexter hissed and leapt out of the way, causing everyone to flinch.

“Dexter,” Jade said urgently. “Don’t move.”

Miraculously the cat obeyed, plopping down on his haunches, his green eyes glaring at Bennett as his tail flicked ominously back and forth.

The sirens grew closer still.

Bennett waved the gun at the group. “Time’s up. Who wants to go first?” They stood in silence as he aimed the weapon from one face to the next, like a morbid game of spin the bottle.

“Don’t do this, mate,” said Alastair, and Bennett was pleased to hear the tremble in his voice. Not so smug now, are we? “Look, if it’s a book deal you want, I can get you a book deal. Seven, maybe even eight figures. With McCloud gone, I need a new star client on my roster.”

Bennett knew it was a lie. Desperate false promises whispered in the face of death. And yet, he still hesitated.

That was his mistake.

Desire narrows the mind’s focus too.

Something hard cracked against the back of his skull. The world around him fractured as sharp pain exploded in his head. His knees buckled. He went down hard against the marble floor. His vision splintered into a murky sea of shadows. He didn’t even see who the gun was pointed at when it went off.

It was only a second, but for Darius, time seemed to stretch and dilate, swelling with the weight of eternity. Everything happened in slow motion. A graceful dance set to the dramatic soundtrack of an opera finale.

The violins soared, the trumpets sang out, and a passionate choir of voices crescendoed in a triumphant and tragic harmony.

Evelyn had emerged from the dining room, as silent and agile as her cat. She’d snatched up the antique typewriter from the end table as if it weighed nothing at all and wielded it like a golf club at the back of Bennett’s head. The thud echoed like a final bass note as Bennett crumpled to the floor. His hand squeezed the trigger. The bullet left the gun with a climactic boom, spiraling through the air, on a one-way collision course with Isabel’s exquisite face.

Isabel’s life had never flashed before her eyes before. She’d never had a gun fired at her before. Everything happened so quickly. A blink of an eye. A tiny gap between words typed on a page. One press of the space bar and the world changed.

Before Darius could think, or process, or debate with the voices in his head, he, too, was moving in slow motion, swimming through thick molasses as the orchestra reached its climactic peak and then dissolved into a deafening silence that lasted two lifetimes.

The bullet embedded itself in flesh.

And Darius knew time would never feel the same again.

Simone didn’t hesitate. The moment she heard the gun go off, she was already moving, running, charging. She crashed into Jade. The unsuspecting facilitator crumpled like a paper bag and slammed into the foyer table, sending welcome packets and monogrammed fountain pens scattering everywhere. The flash drive in Jade’s weak grip clattered to the ground. In one clamoring heartbeat, Simone was on her knees. In another, the flash drive was gripped in her palm.

Yes!

But then came the third heartbeat. Something hard kicked at her clasped fist, bursting her fingers apart. The flash drive skittered away. She looked up to see Jade scrambling after it.

That bitch!

Simone grabbed her legs, pulling her back. The facilitator fought valiantly. But she was weak. Tiny. Fragile. And Simone did Pilates.

She clambered over Jade and dove for the drive, feeling it once again in her grasp. But before she could get back on her feet, something sharp sank deep into her calf. She cried out in agony, releasing the drive as she glanced back at the fountain pen protruding from her lower leg, the familiar Pen Ultimate Writers logo sparkling in the late-morning light.

She screamed, in both pain and horror, at the ghastly image.

But she wasn’t the only one.

Someone else was screaming.

Through the pain and the blood—so much blood—it took Simone’s vision a moment to focus. And her mind to catch up.

That wasn’t her blood.

Jade’s fingers trembled as she gripped the flash drive. She lay on her stomach, breathing hard, feeling the cool marble on her skin as the last fifteen seconds slowly caught up to her.

What did I do?

Her gaze landed on the fountain pen buried in Simone’s leg like a dagger and bile rose up in her throat. Something had come over her as she’d watched Simone’s hand close around the drive, as she’d watched the veil of lies lift to reveal the simple truth underneath.

Ian McCloud and Simone Prescott had killed Jasmine. With their fabrications and their desperation.

Jade rested her forehead against the cool floor and squeezed her hand around the drive, feeling her breathing slowly return to normal.

It’s over. It’s finally over.

But it wasn’t.

Because her forehead was no longer touching marble. Something warm and sticky seeped beneath her skin. With a shriek, she leapt to her knees, eyes scouring the foyer until she found the trail of blood stretching across the floor like a crimson river.

It was flowing from the gaping wound in Darius’s stomach.

Chapter Eighty

“Noooooooo!” I scream.

Not Darius. Please, God. Not Darius. Please. Please. Please!

“We have to go!” Alastair pulls my numb, lifeless arm toward the car. But I can’t move. The sound of the gunshot is ringing in my ears. The shot from my gun.

“The police are almost here!” Alastair cries. “We have to leave now.”

“He wasn’t supposed to die. No one else was supposed to die. Please don’t let him die.” I whisper this aloud. Like a prayer. But who the hell am I praying to? I am the creator of this tragedy. I am the god of this universe. This is all my doing.

“He might be okay. The bullet wound didn’t look that bad.” Alastair’s words are empty. An agent’s hollow reassurance to a failing writer. This is all fixable. You can revise this.

But I can’t.

I can’t undo this. I can’t edit this off the page. I never could. Because it was never just a page. It was my life. My personal vendetta played out like a Greek tragedy on an elaborate stage. Ending like all tragedies do.

Some mistakes can’t be revised. Some storms can’t be put back in the bottle. I learned that a long time ago.

I was never really going to kill Darius. I love him like a son. I was just trying to scare him. To scare you. All that stuff earlier, it was all for show.

That wasn’t propane that I leaked into the basement. It was nitrous oxide. Completely harmless. It just knocked him out. And I never tampered with the bike. Darius just didn’t know how to drive one. He confused the brake with the clutch and nearly drove himself off the cliff. I nearly had a heart attack as I watched the whole thing unfold on the CCTV cameras. He assumed I was behind it all and I let you believe it. Because it was Step 8, for god’s sake! Danger Descends! There had to be a threat of death.

All authors lie in Step 8. Because they have to make you believe that the main character’s life is at risk. Otherwise there would be no tension. No conflict. It’s just part of the game we play with our readers. I make it look like I’m going to kill him, you wonder if I’m serious. But deep down in your heart, you know.

I would never do that.

Some rules you just don’t break.

“If you don’t get in the goddamn car this second,” Alastair warns, “I’m leaving without you!”

I hesitate, my gaze bouncing between Alastair’s Jaguar idling in the driveway and the front door of the monastery. I think about Darius bleeding inside, shot with my own gun. I could go to him. I could tell him I’m sorry. So very sorry. I never meant for this to happen. All I wanted was to see the bad guys go down. To absolve myself of my sins. To clean up my own mess. Now I’ve just created a bigger one.

“There’s nothing you can do for him.” Alastair gives my arm one last violent yank. “Now get in the bloody car.”

Step 12

“The Aftermath”

Chapter Eighty-One

Twelve hours later

“Do you want to tell us your version of what happened?”

Isabel lifted her head from the cold metal table of the interrogation room and stared into the bored eyes of the two middle-aged men sitting across from her. “I already told you my version. I’ve been telling you for hours.”

“I’m afraid we need to hear it again,” said the one in the blue shirt. Isabel hadn’t bothered to remember their names. Or maybe she just didn’t want to remember.

“You must not be very good detectives, then,” she chided. “If you have to hear the same story over and over again.”

They exchanged looks, clearly a passing of the torch because the one in the gray shirt spoke next. “We just have to double-check everyone’s statement.”

“Please.” Isabel reached across the table, nearly knocking over the cup of stale coffee she hadn’t touched. “Just tell me, how is he? Is he okay? Is he alive? Nobody has told me anything!”

All night she’d sat crying in this room with nothing for company but the memory of that dark chasm in the middle of Darius’s stomach, her useless hand pressed desperately against it, like she was trying to hold him together.

covering her clothes—caked under her fingernails—so much blood—

“Last we heard he was still in surgery,” said Gray Shirt, and she immediately decided he was the nicer of the two. “But we don’t know any more than that. Now, can you tell us what happened?”

“He took the bullet for me,” she whispered, her throat raw from all the crying. Damn, she hated crying. “The gun was aimed at me and he leapt in front of it. It should be me in that hospital.”

Another look was exchanged as the torch was passed back to Blue Shirt. “I’m afraid we’re going to need you to start from the beginning.”

“The whole thing was a setup from the beginning,” Simone explained. She was seated in the most uncomfortable chair in the world—who makes chairs out of steel?—with her bandaged calf propped up on a stool. “The killer wanted it to unfold like a murder mystery. You know, the isolated setting kind.”

The detectives across from her exchanged blank looks. God, they were dense. Simone sighed. “The Guest List, And Then There Were None, In a Dark, Dark Wood.”

“Those are books,” said the one who’d introduced himself as Detective Shaw. He looked more like Detective Blah in that boring blue shirt.

“Wow,” Simone deadpanned. “Did you go to college to get that smart? Or were you just blessed with brains and looks?”

The detective was not amused. Not that Simone was surprised. Both of them were total drips. When she heard she was going to be interviewed by real detectives, she’d expected sexy, gruff, bourbon breath, and maybe a five-o’clock shadow. She’d expected Marlow Griggs. Instead, she’d gotten two potbellied middle-aged snores who looked like they worked at H&R Block. Obviously, her quick wit would be lost on them.

“Yes, they’re books,” she snapped. “That’s the point. The killer was writing the murder like one of those mysteries. You know, with a remote setting, no outside communication, et cetera. We were invited to be the cast of characters.”

“And why would someone invite you all to a remote setting in the middle of nowhere?” asked Detective Lawrence, the marginally more attractive of the two, but it was a close game.

Simone sighed. “Obviously, so we’d all be in one place for the big event.”

“Ian McCloud’s murder?” asked Shaw. Simone didn’t like the way he said murder, as though he were putting the word in italics.

“Yes!” she cried. “Please try to keep up.”

The detectives shared a smirk, the most amusement she’d gotten out of them all night.

“Anyway, so the writer and the writer’s agent—that’s Alastair Sinclair—Have you found him yet? He slipped out the back door during all the commotion.”

Detective Shaw checked his notepad. “We didn’t see an Alastair Sinclair on the guest list.”

“I know.” Simone rolled her eyes. “As I’ve already told you, he was invited and then disinvited, but he claimed he wasn’t, so he showed up anyway. It turns out, though, he was lying. He was working with the killer the whole time.”

“As the killer’s agent,” Lawrence stated. And there were those damn italics again.

“No, the writer’s agent,” said Simone.

“Who is also the killer,” confirmed Shaw.

“Yes!” Simone sighed. “The killer was also writing a book about the murder. So, the writer and Alastair lured us to the monastery so they could kill Ian McCloud and frame Bennett for it.”

“Like one of those murder mystery dinner parties?” asked Lawrence.

Simone groaned. “It wasn’t a party. It was a real murder.”

“And Bennett was the killer?”

“Yes and no,” said Simone. “He didn’t kill Ian but he tried to kill the rest of us. He probably would have succeeded if not for Evelyn.”

“This is…” Shaw consulted his notes again. “Evelyn Channing.”

“Is she okay?” Simone asked. “The killer attacked her last night. She had a concussion. Oh, and what about the cat?”

The detectives exchanged cryptic looks. “She’s fine. A little confused. She’s having some trouble remembering things. The doctors are checking her out. And her son and daughter-in-law are taking care of the cat.”

“Did you hear what she did? She saved our lives! Bennett was going to kill us until she hit him in the head with a typewriter.”

“Fitting,” mused Lawrence.

“I thought so,” agreed Simone.

“And that’s when Ms. Brooks stabbed you in the leg,” said Shaw, eyeing her bandaged calf.

“Yes.”

“Completely unprompted.” Detective Shaw’s tone held more than just a hint of skepticism.

“Yes.” Simone kept her face neutral as the lie slipped out. She’d been here for hours and so far, no one had mentioned the flash drive she’d tried to steal from Jade. Maybe it had gotten lost in the shuffle. Or maybe Alastair had lied about its contents.

“Why would she stab you?” asked Lawrence.

“As I said,” Simone replied sharply, “it was complete chaos after the gun went off. I’m sure it was an accident. Maybe she thought she was stabbing Bennett. He was trying to kill us all.”

Shaw leaned back, a steely look in his eyes. “And why did Bennett try to kill you all?”

Simone infused her eyes with the same steeliness. “Maybe you should ask him that.”

“For the last time, I didn’t kill anyone!” cried Bennett. He’d abandoned the ridiculously uncomfortable chair long ago and was now pacing the small interrogation room. The EMTs had wrapped a white bandage around his head and given him painkillers for the growing lump on the crown of his skull, but it still pulsed with every step.

“That’s yet to be determined,” said the detective. He’d introduced himself as Nathan Shaw hours ago, but Bennett preferred to think of him as Pompous Asshole #1. “And we have three witnesses claiming that you threatened to kill everyone.”

Bennett snorted. “I was bluffing! I wasn’t actually going to do it. Look at me. I’m a writer. Does it look like I have what it takes to kill someone, let alone multiple someones?”

“Let’s just say nothing surprises us anymore,” said Pompous Asshole #2. “People do unexpected things when they feel threatened.”

“I wasn’t threatened.” Bennett paused to glare at the two men.

“According to the other witnesses”—Asshole #1 paged through his notes—“you had a very large book deal on the line. I’d say that counts as a threat.”

“And one witness claims you were the one who shot Darius Walker,” added Asshole #2.

“I didn’t shoot him,” Bennett swore. “I was attacked. The gun was taken from my hand before it went off.”

“You were attacked by”—Asshole #1 glanced at his notes again—“Evelyn Channing, age eighty.”

Bennett did not miss the hint of a smirk that flickered across both of their stupid faces. “Hey! She whacked me in the head with an antique typewriter! Those things are heavy.”

Asshole #1 lowered his head, presumably to hide another smirk. “Right.”

Bennett dragged his hands across his face. He’d been trapped in this room for hours, watching the two pompous assholes swagger in and out like amateur stage actors who couldn’t figure out their cues. “Look, I know how this works. If you could prove anything, you’d have arrested me by now. You can’t keep me here, so you might as well let me go.”

“We will,” said Asshole #2. “As soon as the tox report comes back.”

Bennett froze and slowly turned around. “What tox report?”

“The one currently being conducted on Ian McCloud,” said Asshole #1 as though it were obvious. “We found him dead in the freezer.”

Bennett scoffed. “Well, you’re welcome. We were trying to preserve the body. For you.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “It worked. We were able to get plenty of forensics off of him, including a few sets of fingerprints.”

“Yes!” Bennett hurried back to the table. “That’s right. Alastair Sinclair and I pulled him out of the hot springs. That was before Darius insisted we put on gloves. So you can confirm that Alastair was there, right? He’s the one you’re looking for. He’s behind all of this!”

Asshole #1 went back to flipping through his notes. “None of the fingerprints we pulled were a match to Alastair Sinclair.”

Bennett dropped into his seat. “That’s impossible. We pulled the body out together. I saw him touch it. Did he wipe away only his own fingerprints?”

The two detectives exchanged a cryptic glance. “What can you tell us about someone named Marjorie Ivanov?”

“Marjorie Ivanov was the killer’s second victim,” said Isabel, leaning back in her chair. “Ian McCloud’s murder was planned, but Marjorie’s was done out of necessity to cover up the first.”

Detective Gray Shirt pursed his thin lips as he reviewed his notes. “So, two murders.”

“Yes,” Isabel said. “Ian McCloud and Marjorie Ivanov. One, two.” This was like talking to a pair of forgetful toddlers.

“How do you know Marjorie was killed out of necessity?” asked Blue Shirt.

“Because Alastair told us. He said she was ‘getting in the way.’ ”

“Alastair Sinclair confessed to killing Marjorie Ivanov?” asked Gray Shirt.

“Well, no. He told us the writer killed her. He said Marjorie was a plot device. She gave us a reason to search the monastery.”

Blue Shirt combed back through his notes. “Because her body went missing?”

“Exactly.”

“Tell me again where you found her body?” asked Gray Shirt.

Isabel sighed. “On the third-floor landing, in the service stairwell.”

“And everyone else saw it too?” asked Blue Shirt.

“Yes. Darius and I heard Marjorie arguing with someone. Then we heard her scream as she was pushed down the stairs. Everyone came running, we checked her pulse, she was dead. But later, I heard the killer in the stairwell moving the body, and when I checked again, it was gone.”

“And so that’s when you all split into pairs to go look for it?”

“Yes. We assumed the killer moved it to hide evidence.”

“But you never found it?”

“What are you getting at?” Isabel demanded.

“Well, we found the body of Ian McCloud in the freezer.” Blue Shirt closed his notebook. “But there’s no sign of a second body.”

Isabel’s stomach clenched. “You haven’t found her yet?”

Blue Shirt shook his head, pinning her with a chilling glare.

“You better keep looking, then,” she said defiantly. “Dig up the whole forest if you have to. She’s somewhere on those grounds.”

“Don’t worry,” Gray Shirt assured her. “Our forensics team is still there. If there’s something to find, they’ll find it.”

“Can you tell us about your relationship with Mr. McCloud?”

Simone’s gaze snapped up from the table. “Why is that relevant?”

“He’s dead,” Detective Shaw deadpanned. “We think it’s kind of important.”

“You were romantically involved with him, weren’t you?” Detective Lawrence asked.

Simone crossed her arms. “Yes, but I wouldn’t exactly call what we did together romantic.”

The blush that crept over Lawrence’s face was extremely satisfying.

“But you had recently broken up,” said Shaw.

She shrugged. “We had a fight last month. It wasn’t a breakup. We fought all the time.”

“Why did you show up uninvited to a writing conference where you knew he’d be speaking?” asked Shaw.

“I wasn’t uninvited. Ian invited me. At least, I thought he did. He sent me a text, asking me to meet him at the conference, but it was probably the killer who sent that.”

Detective Lawrence rested his elbows on the table. “Why would the killer invite you?”

Simone held his gaze. If she looked away now, they’d pounce. “Maybe because I made a good suspect. The jilted lover. It’s kind of a classic character.”

“So, you’re saying the only reason the writer—or killer, or whoever—invited you to this writing conference was as a red herring,” said Shaw.

“Ah, look who’s starting to get it!” praised Simone, patting the table condescendingly. “Using mystery writer lingo and everything!”

“I try,” Shaw said dryly before giving his notes another glance. “Although there’s a problem with your theory. A plot hole, if you will.” He flashed her a mock smile. “It doesn’t explain this.”

He reached into a leather briefcase on the floor and pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Even before he plopped it down in front of her, she knew. The flash drive inside glinted off the fluorescent lights as it clinked loudly against the steel table.

Simone’s throat tightened. What were the odds it wasn’t the one that incriminated her? Five to one? Six to one? How many flash drives were there?

Regardless, she decided the odds were probably not in her favor. When were they ever?

Chapter Eighty-Two

Jade stared at the plastic evidence bag on the interrogation room table. Her stomach had been in knots for hours waiting for this moment.

“Did you look at it?” she asked the detectives, unable to pull her gaze from the flash drive.

“We did,” replied Detective Shaw. “Forensics analyzed it. The metadata indicates the file originated from a cache folder on Ian McCloud’s laptop. He probably played it to verify the contents and then deleted the original file, not realizing the system had made a backup.”

The contents.

Such a cold, clinical word. And yet it filled her heart with so much hope.

“Do you want to see it?” Detective Lawrence asked in a gentle voice.

Yes! she wanted to scream, but the word got caught in her throat. Instead her response came in the form of thick tears rolling down her cheeks.

Lawrence pulled a laptop from his briefcase and opened it. A few mouse clicks later, the screen was facing her and Jade was looking at a video. The play button in the center of the screen loomed like a dangerous invitation, taunting her, asking if she had the courage to press it.

“This might be difficult to watch,” said Lawrence, rising to his feet. “We’ll give you a moment.”

The door clicked closed and Jade was alone with the one thing she’d wanted more than anything in the world—apart from being able to rewind time and save her sister’s life. The possibility of this video—this proof—had kept her up night after night for two years. It had been the source of her worst nightmares and her best daydreams. It had dragged her halfway across the country to California like some desperate forty-niner seeking gold.

And now that she was staring it in the face, now that she had unearthed it from the muddy riverbed, she wasn’t sure if she could go through with it. It was suddenly too real.

“You know you have to do it.” The voice slipped seamlessly back into her mind, as if it had never left. As if it were merely resuming a conversation that had paused mid-sentence.

Jade inhaled sharply, a waterfall of relief cascading through her heart.

Jasmine.

Then she was there, sitting on the metal table, her hair plaited in twin braids just like they wore it when they were kids. But there was something weak about her energy. The details of her face were wispy and fading. She was nothing like the larger-than-life entity that had once taken up so much space in Jade’s mind. Now she felt Jasmine’s presence like paper-thin wings, fluttering feebly against the side of a glass jar.

“You know you have to watch it,” Jasmine said, and even her voice sounded far away. Like a radio in the next room, turned down low.

“I know,” Jade whispered aloud. She didn’t care if there were cameras on her, watching her every move. She didn’t care who heard. She refused to be ashamed of her secret anymore. Not when it was the one thing that had kept her going, kept her sane.

A coping mechanism? Maybe.

A life raft was more accurate.

“Before you do,” said Jasmine, “I want to say thank you.”

“Don’t do that,” said Jade, panic rising in her throat.

“Jadey.” Her fingers reached out but never touched Jade’s skin.

“No!” Jade shook her head. “This isn’t the end.”

“We both know that it is.”

Jade started to cry again. She balled her hands into fists, as if she could hold on with nothing more than the strength of her fingers. But she knew it was pointless. No one could ever hold on to Jasmine.

“I’m not ready,” Jade whispered.

“You are.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“You will.”

“I’ll never forget you.”

“You won’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” Jasmine’s last words echoed around the room as if they’d been uttered by a real person, with real resonance in her voice.

Jade unfurled her hands like she was releasing a butterfly into the sky, and pressed play.

Detective Shaw pressed play. Simone forced herself to watch as the video on his laptop came to life. A now familiar scene—Jasmine Palmer striding down a long hotel hallway, knocking on the door marked 1207.

Simone had already watched this footage countless times. Ever since that flash drive had been slipped under her door, this scene had been playing on a constant loop in her mind, her writer’s brain searching for flaws, plot holes she could exploit to rip the story apart.

But that was the problem. It wasn’t a story. It was the truth. And it couldn’t be rewritten, no matter how hard Simone tried.

On the laptop screen, the door to room 1207 opened. McCloud stood there in his burgundy shirt, the top two buttons undone, wearing an expression Simone knew all too well. Glassy eyes, wolfish smile, hunger in his gaze. He was drunk enough to sway slightly on his feet, but not enough that he didn’t know what he was doing. He always knew what he was doing.

“I brought the book.” Jasmine held up a small object that glinted in the overhead lights.

It had all started with a flash drive.

“It’s called Dead Girls Don’t Lie,” she said. “It’s so nice of you to offer to read it. My agent is going on submission with it soon, so any advice you can give, I’d be very grateful.” She extended the drive toward him. He focused on it for a moment before his gaze drifted up her black cocktail dress.

“Why don’t you come inside? We can have a drink, and I’ll tell you everything I know about the publishing industry.” A coy wink. “This business is all about making the right connections.”

Simone watched Jasmine’s face harden as the truth sank in. The real reason she was invited to this room. She looked both incredulous and furious at the same time.

“Are you kidding me?” Her tone was edgy, guarded.

That threw him off. “What? What did I say?”

“Isn’t that play a little overdone?” She barked out a laugh. “Invite me in for a drink? Whisper secrets in my ear about the publishing industry while you slip a hand up my dress?”

Ian laughed, a familiar gruff sound that grated on Simone’s ears. “You’re reading this all wrong. I’m just trying to help. I know what it’s like to be an aspiring writer. All those big dreams. All those gatekeepers guarding the entrance. It can be very hard to break into this business. It helps to have friends on the inside. I just want to be your friend, Jasmine.”

“Thanks,” she said dismissively, “but I have enough friends.”

She started to turn away. Simone wanted to turn away too. Because she knew what came next. But she forced herself to keep watching as Ian wrapped a hand around Jasmine’s slender arm and pulled her back. As he guided her hand to his crotch. “Do you see what you do to me? I can’t resist you, Jasmine.”

It felt like a punch to the gut. The same words. The same fucking words he’d tried to use on Simone three days ago when she stormed into his room to tell him she knew about the footage. As if he actually believed that turning him on was some kind of privilege.

For years it had been, for Simone. She’d felt honored. Now she just felt sick.

Jasmine wrenched her hand away. “Eww, stop! I don’t need to touch your wrinkly old cock to get a fucking book deal. I can get one myself.”

That did it. The wolfish smile turned into an angry snarl. Simone watched his bruised ego mix dangerously with the booze, turning him into something grotesque and dangerous.

Now Simone did look away. She shut her eyes. But it did nothing to block out the sound of the struggle. Or the memory of it streaming back through her mind, possibly in more detail than what was playing on the screen. McCloud pinning Jasmine to the wall, pressing himself against her, shoving his tongue in her mouth.

The truth played out whether Simone wanted to see it or not.

“Fuck you, Ian McCloud!” A voice shouted through the laptop speakers.

Simone opened her eyes to see Jasmine running down the hallway, roughly wiping him off her face. McCloud stood there, panting from the fight, probably even a little turned on, if Simone was honest. She watched him catch his breath, smoothing his crumpled shirt, gathering his composure. Then she watched his eyes drift upward, noticing the camera for the first time.

For a long beat, he stared into it, and Simone felt like he was staring right at her. Haunting her from beyond the grave with those wild glassy eyes. Peering right into her blackened soul.

Simone had gone her whole life feeling like she was just short of her happy ending and just shy of deserving it. When she met Ian McCloud, she thought she’d finally found a man who could love her and all her complexities, a man she was willing to risk everything for, rewrite the narrative for, only to discover the relationship was as fictional as the story she’d leaked to the press.

“Fuck,” Ian swore, ripping his eyes from the camera. He shut the door and strode off down the hallway. On a mission to erase the past, the way only he seemed to be able to do.

The footage ended. Silence settled over the room. A crushing, condemning silence that Simone feared would follow her for the rest of her life.

“March seventeenth: ‘Her identity’s been leaked, along with the detail that her agent’s about to start shopping her novel. I found the perfect source to connect the dots. It goes live tomorrow.’ ”

Startled by the familiar words, Simone glanced up to see Detective Shaw reading from a phone sealed in a plastic evidence bag. Ian’s phone. With her text messages on it.

“Where did you find that?” she asked, panic clawing her throat.

“March eighteenth.” Lawrence continued reading. “ ‘JP got the color of your shirt wrong too. Definitely pulled details from social. She really is a manipulative liar, isn’t she? The media’s going to eat this up.’ March twenty-fifth: ‘I got three ex-boyfriends lined up to talk. Wasn’t hard. JP doesn’t end relationships well. No way in hell anyone’s going to believe her after this.’ ”

Simone buried her head in her hands as her own words pounded mercilessly against her skull. She couldn’t believe there was once a time when she’d felt proud of what she’d done. She’d seized control of the story and bent it to her will! She’d even invented an entirely new character: Jasmine Palmer, the manipulative predator, desperate for success.

Simone had tried to write mystery novels. She was never very good at it. But this was the only time in her life when she’d felt like a real writer, agonizing over the details for days, shuffling around the events of the plot, timing the reveals for maximum impact, endlessly spinning and twisting the words until they finally fit the story she wanted to tell.

The story she desperately wanted to believe.

“You destroyed that girl’s life,” Lawrence said, setting down the phone. “Your false narrative turned everyone against her.”

“I didn’t know it was false.” The excuse sounded weak even to Simone now, in light of all this truth. She stared vacantly at the darkened screen where the real story had just played out, impossible to ignore or deny anymore.

With Ian, Simone had never been able to tell what was real and what was not. It was easy to see the difference between fiction and reality when the truth played out before you on a laptop screen. But it was nearly impossible when you were trapped inside it, when the fiction was your reality. When it was all you could see, all you wanted to see. Like a fish who never questions the water it swims in. Everyone assumes their reality is real. No one ever stops to wonder if they’re actually living inside someone else’s lie.

“After what you did, Jasmine Palmer had no way out,” said Lawrence.

“I didn’t kill her,” Simone whispered, unsure who she was trying to convince.

“That’s for the courts to decide,” Shaw said with zero sympathy. “But it is difficult to prove causation when it comes to issues of mental health and suicide. It’ll probably come down to a civil case of defamation. You’ll have to face the victim’s family in court and let a judge decide your punishment. But the real trial will be out there.” He pointed toward the door.

Lawrence clicked his tongue. “The public doesn’t take kindly to women who undermine the credibility of sexual assault victims, especially to protect the offender’s reputation.”

Simone snorted. “The public doesn’t take kindly to women period. Why do you think they were so quick to believe my version of the story?”

“The backlash will be significant,” warned Shaw.

Simone blew out a breath and for a long time just sat there, staring at the screen, under the harsh scrutiny of the two detectives. Two men who would never understand what it was like to be her. To be judged, valued, objectified, labeled, measured, categorized, stereotyped, pigeonholed, profiled, and constantly underestimated because of the way she looked in a matching lingerie set.

She never wanted to be the villain. She wanted to be the hero. But somehow, over the years, with enough corruption, enough betrayal, and a handful of shitty decisions, she’d become one of the bad guys.

Simone thought back to something she’d read in a writing guide once.

Every villain thinks of themselves as the hero of their own story.

But this wasn’t even her story. It had never felt like hers. She’d always felt like a side character in someone else’s life, riding shotgun on someone else’s adventure.

If this were a novel, she probably wouldn’t even be given a proper ending. Her story would be left unfinished, a character arc not worth completing. A villain unworthy of a second chance at redemption.

That would be her ultimate punishment.

Chapter Eighty-Three

“We just received word that your friend Mr. Walker is out of surgery.”

Isabel leapt out of her chair. “Is he okay? Can I go see him?”

Gray Shirt motioned for her to sit back down. “Not just yet. There’s one more matter we need to discuss with you.”

She sank into the chair, her body tired, her eyes stinging. She hadn’t slept in days.

“Two, actually.” Blue Shirt reached into his briefcase and pulled out a pair of plastic evidence bags, which he placed on the table. In one bag, the contents were intact, the metal casing of a flash drive glinting under the overhead lights. The other bag, however, contained the warped and charred remains of evidence hastily tossed into the fire.

A knot formed in Isabel’s chest. But with it came an unexpected sense of calm. Of conclusiveness. Her nightmare was finally over. She knew this moment of reckoning was coming eventually. It was why the writer put her in this story in the first place. To pay for her sins.

“Do you want to tell us about these?” prompted Blue Shirt after several moments of silence.

“And do your job for you?” asked Isabel. “Why would I do that?”

Gray Shirt cracked a tiny smile. “Very well.” He withdrew a laptop from his bag and tilted the screen toward her. She recognized the security footage immediately and tried to hide her reaction out of habit. But the effort was half-hearted. She was so tired of lying.

“Forensics was able to recover partial data from the drive in your fireplace. Enough for us to deduce what it was. Getting a copy was easy. In fact, it was already on file at the Dutchess County Sheriff’s Office.”

Isabel flinched. “It was?”

“Yes. Apparently, three months ago, someone called in an anonymous tip about suspicious activity at the home of Ian McCloud, on the night of October third. The police investigated but found no evidence of wrongdoing except for this security footage documenting a trespasser on the property.” Gray Shirt paused the video just as the car crashed into frame, the New York license plate grainy but legible. “The police ran the plates and logged the incident in their system, but Mr. McCloud chose not to press charges so nothing came of it. We confirmed this with his wife, Megan Shapiro, who flew home from Europe this morning, after being informed of her husband’s passing.”

Gray Shirt pressed play and, through the laptop’s speakers, Isabel heard the familiar soundtrack. Tires squealing. A car door slamming. She watched the girl with the purple hair bang on the front door. I know you’re in there! Open the door, you asshole!

“That is you, is it not? Trespassing on Ian McCloud’s property on the night of October third?” asked the detective, as if she couldn’t read the time stamp herself. As if that date hadn’t been seared into her memory like the scar on her forehead. “Wearing some kind of disguise?”

Isabel said nothing, the knot in her chest tightening.

On the screen, the sound of footsteps faded as the shadowy figure disappeared around the side of the house. And then there was nothing. Twenty minutes of empty space filled with only jagged pieces of the truth.

the cottage—the door—the woman—“What have you done?”—

“When we pulled your record,” said Gray Shirt, “we found that the Dutchess County Sheriff’s Office logged the footage from all the security cameras at the house that night.”

Isabel’s mouth went dry. “All the cameras?”

“That’s right.” The detective tapped the keyboard, and the view shifted. The cottage appeared on the screen, amber light flooding through its windows. The crimson door glowed in the night like a vault door guarding the past, protecting Isabel from her darkest truths.

“So they must have seen me—”

Her words were cut off by a shifting of shadows and suddenly, Isabel was on the screen, striding up to the door, lured by the light in the window. She tried the handle. It was locked. She gave it a rough shake but the door only rattled futilely in its frame.

“Hello?” She banged on the door. “Are you in there, you fucking coward?”

Isabel felt like she was no longer in her body. She was split between the girl in this interrogation room and the one on the screen dressed as a Dying Violet. She watched herself walk to the window and peer through the glass.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” The voice startled them both.

The girl on the screen ran, tearing out of view, with Bennett’s shadowy frame in pursuit.

“Wait!” Isabel glanced between the detectives and the screen, convinced it was some kind of cruel trick. “Didn’t I go inside?”

The men exchanged puzzled looks before Gray Shirt replied in a cautious tone, “No. As you just saw, the door was locked.”

Isabel’s brain twisted painfully inside her skull. That couldn’t be right. She must have gone back, found a way in. She’d been inside that cottage. She’d seen the dead woman lying on the floor.

“You seem surprised,” Blue Shirt remarked.

“I just…” Isabel couldn’t find the words.

“What do you think happened that night?” Gray Shirt asked, a curious lilt to his voice that contrasted with his penetrating gaze. “Something that warranted an anonymous tip to the police, perhaps?”

“I don’t understand.” Isabel traced the scar on her forehead. “My head. How did I—”

“You fell,” said Gray Shirt. “While being chased by Ian McCloud’s assistant.” He pressed another key on the laptop. The scene changed again. This one was grainier, black-and-white, from an infrared camera.

Isabel saw herself running, darting anxious glances over her shoulder.

“Stop! I’m calling the police!” Bennett’s voice was growing farther away, lost in the trees.

Isabel ran faster. The scene shifted once more. Another camera. Another forest. Then suddenly, she dropped right out of the frame, like the earth had opened up and swallowed her whole.

“You hit your head on something,” said Gray Shirt. “Probably a rock or a tree branch.” He scrubbed forward on the video until finally, Isabel staggered uneasily back into view.

Except now there was blood oozing from a gash on her forehead, running into her eyes.

“It’s perfectly natural to feel confused.” The detective paused the footage. “You hit your head pretty hard. You were unconscious for several minutes. Concussions can do strange things to our memory. Make us think we recall certain details in a certain way. The brain is always trying to make sense of reality, but with head trauma, it can sometimes fill in the gaps with fiction to create a cohesive narrative.”

“Fiction,” Isabel repeated numbly. A story? A lie?

She pressed against her scar, as if she could force the memories back into place, command her brain to tell the truth. Stop lying.

But lying was what she did best. It was part of who she was. Neural pathways carved into her mind from years ago. Too deep to erase. The irreversible scars of a rebellious child.

She’d even managed to turn it into a career.

No. Isabel refused to believe it. That woman in the cottage was real. Isabel hadn’t imagined her. She killed her. With her temper and her rage and her bad blood!

Except Isabel was never in the cottage. The door was locked. She never went inside.

Something pulsed behind her skull. Isabel winced and clutched her forehead, feeling like her scar was going to burst open and start oozing blood again. She stared at the frozen image of herself on the screen—

dripping into her eyes—sticky between her fingers—so much blood—

And then something happened. The door unlocked. Not the one from the cottage. The one in her mind. It creaked open. The light flooded in. And Isabel could suddenly see it all in crisp, razor-sharp detail. As if she were staring through the window of that cottage right now.

A writer’s office. Chaotic, messy, scattered with empty coffee cups, crumpled notes, index cards spread across the floor, Post-it notes littering every surface.

And the woman.

Just as Isabel remembered her. Dark hair strung across a pale face. Chipped fingernails painted black. Vacant, cloudy eyes staring into nothing.

But she wasn’t lying on the floor of the cottage. She was lying on the floor of a bathroom.

In a photograph.

“I found her in the bathroom. She swallowed pills. I tried to save her but she was already gone.”

There were dozens of pictures pinned to a corkboard on the office wall, like dark seeds of inspiration. Each one revealed a different angle of the same horrific scene. The same dead woman. Enough information for Isabel’s mind to create a 3D rendering. A real-life image stitched together by her brain, inserted into the gaps to create a cohesive narrative. One that fit the person she believed herself to be.

All this time, Isabel thought she was one of the villains. Her dad had drilled it into her since she was a child. You’re a bad girl, Izzy. And she believed it. She thought that was why she’d been lured into this story. To answer for her sins. But it was the other way around.

The writer hadn’t invited her to that conference to punish her, but to release her.

There are bad people in this world, mija. Good guys and bad guys. You must learn to tell the difference.

Isabel now recognized the woman in the photographs littering the cottage walls. The woman who had taken her own life two years ago after Ian McCloud and Simone Prescott destroyed it. The case within the case. The past “murder” that connected them all.

It was Jasmine Palmer.

Chapter Eighty-Four

“Tox report is back. You’re free to go.”

Bennett glanced between the detectives, certain it must be some kind of trick. “What did the tox report say?”

“We’re not at liberty to discuss those details just yet,” said Asshole #2.

“Of course not.” Bennett rolled his eyes. “So, I can go?”

“Before you do.” Asshole #1 dropped an evidence bag on the table. “Can you tell us about this?”

“Looks like a flash drive,” said Bennett.

“Do you know what’s on it?” asked Asshole #2.

“It’s anyone’s guess by now. There was a fucking dozen of those floating around.”

“Yes, and they all seem to reveal something very interesting about each of you. Hotel security footage. Two million dollars funneled into an offshore bank account. Evelyn Channing’s manuscript.” The detective locked his gaze on Bennett as if he’d expected this to sound menacing.

“Which I stole, yes,” Bennett said dismissively. “I’ve already confessed that. But plagiarism is not murder. So if that’s all, I’ll be leaving.”

“Okay,” said Asshole #1, leaning back in his chair. “Fair enough.”

Bennett eyed him suspiciously. “Okay? That’s it?”

“You’re right.” The detective shrugged. “Plagiarism is not murder. You’re probably facing copyright infringement, maybe fraud if things get really spicy, but that’s out of our jurisdiction, so like I said, you’re free to go. But stay close by. In case anything else comes up.”

“Fine.” Bennett didn’t hesitate. He stalked the five paces to the door and yanked it open. It wasn’t until he was outside the interrogation room, steps away from freedom, that his brain finally registered what the detective had just said. He turned and stuck his head back inside. “Wait a minute. Who funneled two million dollars into an offshore bank account?”

“We’ve gotten a lot of answers in the past few hours.” Blue Shirt leaned back in his chair and glared at Isabel from across the table. “But there’s still one mystery to be solved.” He leaned forward. “What were you doing at Ian McCloud’s house the night of October third?”

Isabel hesitated, wondering how much they already knew.

“Perhaps it has something to do with this,” Blue Shirt tapped the second evidence bag. The intact flash drive winked back at her like a silent threat. When she didn’t reply, he reached for the laptop and switched to a different window. This one contained a copy of the transaction receipt Darius had found. Two million dollars supposedly transferred to Isabel’s account.

“That is fake,” she swore, pointing at the screen. “Some kind of forgery. I have no idea why my name is on that receipt and I definitely don’t have two million extra dollars in my account.”

Gray Shirt eyed her carefully. “Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure.” She huffed and pulled the laptop closer. “Look. I’ll show you.” She jabbed at the keys until she was logged in to her bank account and turned the laptop around to show them. She leaned back in her chair with a self-satisfied smirk, waiting for a reaction.

But Gray Shirt simply turned the laptop back to face her. Confused, she peered at the screen, at the current balance, and nearly fell out of her chair.

“What the hell?” she whispered, squinting at the staggering number. Just below it, the most recent transaction glared at her like a too-bright sun.

ID: 991545789654231

Incoming Transfer from McCloud Asset Holdings LLC

Amount $2,109,478

Her body went numb. All she could do was shake her head incessantly. “This isn’t right. It can’t be true. Someone is trying to set me up.”

“You mean someone like Ian McCloud?”

Isabel froze. “What?”

Blue Shirt got to his feet and stood behind his chair. “We spoke to the authorities in Belize. It took some diplomatic pressure, but they finally gave us access to the bank records. The account for McCloud Asset Holdings LLC—the one that’s been receiving direct deposits from McCloud’s literary agency for the past three months—was opened by Ian McCloud himself.”

Isabel’s mouth fell open like a dying fish. It didn’t make sense. Why would McCloud accuse his agent of stealing that money if he was the one who set up the account? Unless someone else used his name to open it and he didn’t know…

“We were also able to confirm that this transfer to your personal account on Friday night—in the amount of two point one million dollars—was originated by Ian McCloud as well.”

She shook her head again. “B-b-but why?”

Blue Shirt leaned on the table and pinned her with a dark stare. His eyes were like X-rays scanning her brain for secrets. “I think you know.”

The floor dropped out from under her.

“I think that’s why you were at his house the night of October third.” The detective’s eyes never faltered, never left hers. “And why we found these in your suitcase.”

He gestured to his partner, who reached into the briefcase once more. What he pulled out next cooled the room to approximately the temperature of an ice planet. Or rather, a walk-in freezer.

“Recognize these?” Gray Shirt asked, plopping another evidence bag on the table.

She sucked in a breath. Darius had almost discovered them when he opened her nightstand drawer. But he only glimpsed the pharmacy bag, not the two tests inside. After that, she’d moved the bag to her suitcase, burying it under piles of clothes. But last night, when she went to confess the truth to Darius, the boxes were gone. She’d assumed the writer had taken them.

“You found those in my suitcase?” she asked, the room spinning.

“Yes,” said Blue Shirt.

Had the writer put them back? To ensure all the right secrets came out in the right order? The planned order?

“Unfortunately, the test swabs were compromised so the DNA sample was unusable,” said Gray Shirt.

She could still feel the icy cold touch of McCloud’s skin under her fingertips as she’d stood in that walk-in freezer and struggled to hold his mouth open as she jammed the cotton swab between his teeth and scraped it against the inside of his cold, dead cheek.

She’d tried to do it the night before, breaking into McCloud’s room via the balcony, hoping to find him asleep, but he wasn’t there. Then the next morning he’d turned up dead.

“But we ran a test of our own,” said Gray Shirt, sliding an envelope across the table to her. “The results are in there. In case you want to know if Ian McCloud is really your father.”

Chapter Eighty-Five

The world was shrouded in white mist, a thick fog that clung to his consciousness like a rain-soaked blanket. Sounds were muffled, drowned in water. His limbs were soaked through, too heavy to move. His mouth was dry as paper and his throat felt raw, like he’d been screaming. Had he been screaming?

He dragged his eyelids open, but the light was too bright. A blinding sun after a century of darkness. He let them close. It was easier that way. Less effort. Less pain.

Something was beeping. Far away. No, close by. No, definitely far away. It was an annoying, repetitive sound, like a persistent poke. His watch? No, he’d destroyed that.

Wake up. It’s time to wake up.

But he didn’t want to wake up. He wanted to sleep forever. What was so great about being awake? Nothing, as far as he could tell.

“Are you awake?” came a voice. It was close by. No, far away. No, definitely close. Intimately close. A whisper in his ear. A breath on his cheek.

He dragged his eyes open again and that’s when he saw the figure sitting on the bed, blurry in the blinding light. He could make out very little detail. Brown hair. Long, bony limbs. A voice that sounded like a mother’s lullaby. And he was fairly certain she was smiling.

“Can you hear me?” came the voice again.

His eyelids were still sagging closed. “Mom?”

No, that wasn’t right. He knew that immediately. But there was something about her that made him feel safe.

“No. Not quite. Although I often thought of you as my son. Or more like an unruly child who wouldn’t behave.” She laughed. It was an angelic sound. “Someday you’ll understand.”

He mustered all his strength to blink. Once. Again. Willing her to come into focus, but it was like staring through a dirty fish tank. Why wouldn’t his eyes focus?

“It’s the drugs,” she said, seeming to read his thoughts. “It’ll take time for them to wear off.”

There was something achingly familiar about her. He’d seen her before. Or talked to her. He blinked again and for just a fleeting second, his vision cleared. But it was long enough.

“Marjorie?” he whispered.

But that couldn’t be right either. Marjorie was dead.

The blurry figure shook her head. “No, that’s not my name.”

“But I know you.” It was too many words for his bone-dry mouth and swollen tongue. Regardless, he knew the words were true. He did know her. But how?

“In a way, yes,” she said. “I feel like I’ve known you all your life.”

His head throbbed. This conversation was too cryptic to follow through all this fog.

“I just had to come see that you were all right. And to apologize.”

Apologize? The word bounced chaotically around his pounding head.

“I failed to protect you. And I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen. Please know that.”

He nodded. At least, he thought he was nodding. It was hard to tell.

“Also, I came to say goodbye. I have to go away. But I’ll miss you.”

He tried to keep his eyes open but it was no use. There were bricks on his eyelids. There was cotton in his brain. It was an impossible combination.

“Bye-bye,” he whispered as the darkness of sleep began to take over once more.

“Listen to me.” Her voice was serious now. Enough to keep the dark at bay for a few more moments. “Don’t give up on your writing. Whatever happens, you need to keep going. You’re a talented writer. You understand plot better than anyone I’ve ever met. Don’t waste that gift analyzing other people’s work, living in other people’s stories. You have a lifetime of novels in you. You just have to let them be written. Let go of what you want them to be—what you think they should be—and let them be what they are. Every story takes on a life of its own. Every character will surprise you. Any twist worth reading is a twist the writer didn’t see coming either. It’s so often beyond our control, but that’s the joy of storytelling. It becomes another reality. Just as thrilling and unpredictable as real life. But only if we’re brave enough to loosen our grip on the pen and let it unfold.”

Her words were followed by a long stretch of silence. For a while, he thought she’d left. Or that she’d never been there to begin with. Maybe he’d fallen back asleep. Then, she spoke again.

“Goodbye, Darius.”

Her voice was coming from farther away now. Soon, he knew, she’d be gone. Something inside him understood the stakes. If he didn’t ask now, he’d lose his chance forever.

He dug deep, deep down through the darkness rapidly cloaking his consciousness and mustered every scrap of energy he had left. “W-w-who are you?”

The question hung in the air like an unsolved mystery. A book without an ending.

“I think you know,” she said, and there was a distinct smile in her voice. Half teasing, half tender. It was the teasing part that lit a fire of frustration in him. If only he could do something about it. Scream or rage or jump out of this bed and demand a better answer. Not the fucking cryptic nonsense that made for a mysterious scene in a book. But a real answer. To his real question. That he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Once again, she seemed to read his mind. As though she understood it better than he ever had. And maybe she did. But he was young. He had time.

“My name is Megan,” she said before the darkness consumed them both.

Chapter Eighty-Six

Three blocks from the police station, Isabel sat alone in her hotel room, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for news. Maybe someone would call and tell her this was all a dream.

The envelope lay next to her on the bed, unopened. The answer to the question she’d been asking since shortly after her mother’s death was still locked inside.

Like the symbol inked into her skin, the secret of her own blood felt trapped behind a fortress of fire and steel. Just as she’d told Darius, her tattoo—the same design that graced the covers of her books—symbolized identity. Heritage.

Blood.

She just didn’t know whose.

She’d designed the symbol years ago, before she ever discovered the truth about her father. Almost as if, deep down, she already knew that the story she’d been told all her life was a lie.

She traced her fingertips along the seam of the envelope, part of her wanting to rip it open, another part wanting to throw it into the fire. Pretend she never knew. Never danced with this devil of an idea. Never found the diary hidden in her mother’s closet.

She’d discovered it about two months after the funeral, when she was clearing out Mami’s apartment. There wasn’t a lot. Her mother had been throwing things away since the cancer diagnosis.

The diary was tucked into an old shoe. It was a small paper notebook, nothing fancy, with scuffed edges, yellowed paper, and long paragraphs scribbled in fading ink. Pages and pages of a story Isabel had never known. It began with a tenderhearted, hopeful young woman, working as a bartender, who fell for the wrong man. A married man who was never named, identified only as R.S.

He made promises he never intended to keep. I thought I was special, but he does it to all of them. I was just unlucky. Mami warned me about men like R.S. When will I ever learn?

The man Isabel grew up with was named Daniel Wallace. He was a barback at the hotel where her mother worked. He’d loved her mother from afar for many years. That’s probably why he did what he did.

Daniel offered to marry me. To raise the baby as his own. I don’t love him. But maybe I could learn to? My daughter deserves to have a father. She shouldn’t have to pay for my mistakes.

As Isabel read those words for the first time, her heart broke for both of them. For the woman who wanted to give her everything and the man who loved her enough to try to do it. He wanted to be a good person. But as Isabel had learned herself, that was easier said than done.

Daniel can’t even look at the baby. I know he’s trying to fulfill his promise but he can’t get past who she is. Where she came from. He doesn’t see her. He only sees the man I loved instead of him.

Isabel always sensed that her father didn’t like her. She thought it was because she was a liar, but it was hard to know which came first. The more he turned away, the more she lied to make him see her. And the more lies she told, the more he wanted nothing to do with her.

The last entry was dated thirteen years ago, shortly after Isabel’s ninth birthday. The night the man claiming to be her father walked out. Isabel had always blamed herself, convinced she had driven him away. And in a sense, it was the truth.

Daniel and I fought again tonight. He thinks I’m too soft on Izzy. He thinks she should be punished for her lies. But we have different ideas on how to raise a child. I want to raise her with kindness, with God, the way Mami raised me.

The truth is, I think, deep down, he just wants to punish her for existing. For not being his. He’s a good man. He tried so hard to love her. But he just couldn’t do it. And it haunted him every day. That’s why I asked him to leave. It’s not fair to any of us if he stays. I was selfish to marry him. I just wanted my little girl to have a good man in her life. But now I’m the one who has to do the right thing.

And she had. For the next thirteen years, Mami had raised Isabel on her own, working her knuckles to the bone, giving Isabel every ounce of her strength and love until the day she died.

When Isabel had first found the diary four months ago, she clung to the idea that her real father was out there. Alive. She tracked an address her mother had scribbled on one of the pages to a mansion owned by Ian McCloud, formerly known as Robert Shapiro. She fell in love with the fantasy forming in her mind. The secret daughter of a famous mystery author? It was as exciting as the storyline she’d already woven into the pages of her book series years ago. As if she’d prophesized her own reality through her fiction. As if her subconscious had recognized the truth long before her conscious mind uncovered it. But the more she learned about Ian McCloud, the more the fantasy darkened.

She stalked him online, hid in corners at his book signings, followed him into bars, watched him hit on women as young as her. When she found the articles about the sexual assault accusation, the truth began to crystallize, along with the subtext of her mother’s final diary entry.

I just wanted my little girl to have a good man in her life.

A good man. Unlike the one whose blood ran in her veins.

She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t write. She spent countless days trying to figure out how to write the ending of a story that had suddenly become her life.

Isabel wasn’t lying when she told the others she’d never met Ian McCloud before the conference. She’d never built up the nerve to confront him until the night she showed up at his house.

Open the door, you asshole! Stop hiding and have the balls to face me!

Now, in the hotel room, Isabel reached for the envelope again. She held it in her hands, feeling the weight of the secret inside. She didn’t want it to be true. She didn’t want his bad blood inside her. She didn’t want that to be her heritage, her legacy, her ending.

But you don’t get to choose where you come from. You don’t get to choose the plot twists of your own life. You only get to choose what you do with them. How you respond.

Isabel knew that was why the writer had put her in this story. That was what she needed to learn. Regardless of what was in this envelope, she was still the narrator of her own life.

Bad decisions are what make bad people, mija.

And she was determined to make the right ones.

The phone rang.

Isabel jumped out of her skin.

With shaking hands, she answered. “Hello?”

“Isabel Torres?” came an unfamiliar female voice. “My name is Susan Lee. I’m a nurse at Mercy Hospital. I was told to call you when Darius Walker woke up.”

Chapter Eighty-Seven

The next time Darius opened his eyes, the fog was gone. His mouth was still dry and his throat was still sore, but his vision was crisper and his head lighter. He could see the room clearly. The beeping monitors. The metal side rails on his bed. The IV drip connected to his arm.

He bolted upright, like a child awakening from a nightmare. He glanced desperately around the room, as if looking for someone. But who would he be looking for?

He collapsed back against the pillows, feeling woozy and slightly nauseous.

Someone had been in here. He’d spoken to someone. Or had he imagined that? His memories were hazy and nonsensical.

Then came the voice. “Are you awake?”

The words. He’d heard them before. He was sure of it. But this was a different voice.

“Darius?”

His gaze shot toward the door where Isabel stood with her arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to stay warm in the crisp hospital corridors.

“Isabel!” His voice gave everything away. His elation. His relief. The pang in his heart.

She ran to him and practically threw herself on top of him, awkwardly weaving her arms through the cords and wires sprouting from his body. “Thank god. You’re okay.”

He groaned as her elbow found its way into his stomach, and she leapt back. “Shit. Sorry.”

“What is that?” He ventured a peek under the covers and recoiled at the sight of a giant bandage wrapped around his torso. “What happened?”

“You were shot.” She said this as if she expected him to remember.

He did not. “Like by a gun?!”

“No, by a Nerf dart, you idiot. Yes, by a gun! You took a bullet for me.”

“I did?” This pleased him immensely.

She obviously didn’t feel the same way. “Yes, which was a very stupid thing to do.”

“I don’t know.” Darius couldn’t stop smiling. “It sounds kind of courageous to me.”

“Nope. Just stupid.”

“You could even say it was heroic.” He tried to flex his biceps but nothing happened. Okay, so clearly, there were parts of him that still weren’t working.

“Are you done?” she asked, scowling.

He let his arm drop. “Yeah.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay.” Her voice softened. “I really thought you might be…”

He waved this away. “What are you talking about? I can’t die. I’m the main character.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right.”

“At least until the story is over,” he amended. “Then I could pretty much die whenever.”

“And when do you think that might be?” She feigned curiosity. “Because I might strangle you myself.”

“If my knowledge of story structure is correct,” Darius said with a teasing smile, “I don’t think the novel can end until you agree to go out with me.”

Isabel raised a brow. “Are you sure you’re not confusing this with a rom-com again?”

“Absolutely.”

She laughed that beautiful laugh of hers. “How about I give you a call after I finish my book?”

He perked up. “Does that mean you’ve figured out how to end the series?”

“I have some ideas,” she replied vaguely.

“Speaking of endings, what’s the latest with the murder investigation?”

Isabel shrugged. “Beats me. Blue Shirt and Gray Shirt weren’t exactly forthcoming.”

“Who?” Darius squinted.

“The detectives who interviewed me. I didn’t bother to remember their names.”

“But you have an eidetic memory.”

“Which is apparently also selective.”

Darius smirked. “I see. So, what do they think happened? Do they have any leads on the killer? Did you tell them about—”

“Whoa, whoa,” she said, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Slow down. Don’t get yourself worked up. I told them all about the writer, but I’m not sure they believed me.”

The writer.

Darius shivered and once again found himself glancing around the room, as if expecting someone to be hiding behind the curtain.

“Knock-knock!” came a throaty male voice from the hallway.

Darius and Isabel turned to see two men standing just outside the door, looking like they were going to try to squeeze through at the same time. Darius clocked their distinctive gray and blue shirts and flashed a questioning glance at Isabel, who nodded.

“Can we come in?” asked the one in the blue shirt.

“Yes, of course.” Darius sat up straighter as the two men approached the bed.

“I’m Detective Shaw and this is Detective Lawrence.” The man in the blue shirt gestured to his colleague. “We’re here to—”

“I know,” Darius said. “I’m awake and coherent, which means it’s time for you to take my statement, ask me a few questions. I know how this works.”

The men exchanged an inscrutable look. “Actually,” said Shaw, “we came to tell you that the case has been closed.”

“Closed?” asked Darius, confused.

“The tox report came back a few hours ago,” explained Lawrence. “The medical examiner ruled Ian McCloud’s death an accident.”

“An accident?!” exclaimed Darius and Isabel in matching tones of disbelief.

“That’s impossible,” Isabel said. “How could it be an accident?”

Shaw pulled a piece of paper from his briefcase and passed it to her. “See for yourself. Hydrogen sulfide poisoning.”

“You mean the writer poisoned him?” she asked.

“No.” Shaw pronounced the word slowly. “The hot springs did.”

“What?” Darius plucked the tox report from Isabel and skimmed over all the medical jargon until he arrived at the bottom line, which confirmed what the detective had just said.

Cause of Death: Accidental extended exposure to hydrogen sulfide

“It’s sadly quite common,” said Lawrence. “Natural hot springs have hydrogen sulfide in them. Extended exposure can be dangerous. Toxic even. Especially if you’re already under the influence of other substances, like alcohol, which Mr. McCloud had plenty of in his system.”

“An accident,” Isabel repeated, her voice hollow.

“We believe,” said Shaw, “Mr. McCloud went for a late-night dip to unwind after his argument with Ms. Prescott. All the guests we interviewed—including Ms. Torres—remembered seeing his robe and slippers at the hot springs.” He pulled out a notebook and leafed through the pages. “According to several witness statements, the argument took place around 10:30 p.m. Which fits the medical examiner’s timeline. She placed the time of death at 12:45 a.m. Lethal exposure to hydrogen sulfide can happen in less than an hour in the right circumstances.”

“But what about the wound on his head?” asked Isabel.

“That was sustained a couple of days before the conference,” explained Shaw, referring to his notes. “There’s a record of him visiting the emergency room on Wednesday night after he got drunk and hit his head on the bathroom sink in his home. The doctor stitched him up with resorbable sutures that—”

“—dissolved while he was in the hot springs,” Darius concluded with a sinking sensation in his chest, “reopening the wound and making it look fresh.”

“Yes,” said Shaw, sounding somewhat impressed.

Darius shook his head. “No one noticed the stitches because of that damn hat he always wore.”

“So, the power going out had nothing to do with it?” Isabel asked.

“Actually, we have found no evidence of a power outage,” said Shaw. “All the electrical wires running to the monastery were intact. The breaker box showed no sign of tampering.”

“The writer put the fuses back before she left,” Darius whispered to Isabel, who nodded knowingly, already coming to the same conclusion.

“And Ms. Brooks mentioned something about the phone lines going out, which was why no one could call for help after the landslide blocked the road,” added Lawrence, reviewing his own notes. “But we found no evidence of that either.” He shut his notepad decisively. Case closed. End of story. “There was a wire disconnected from the office phone. Perhaps Ms. Brooks was just unfamiliar with landline phones.”

“What about the housekeeping cart?” Darius asked.

“What housekeeping cart?” asked Lawrence, not even bothering to reopen his notepad.

“The one that the killer used to move the body to the hot springs,” Isabel said impatiently.

“We didn’t find a housekeeping cart at the hot springs,” said Shaw. “We found one in the laundry room.” He pronounced the word as if he were teaching it to a first grader.

Darius balled his fists. “No, the writer killed McCloud in his room, stuffed his body in the housekeeping cart, and then dumped him in the hot springs. Evelyn found the tracks from the cart. But she was attacked before she could tell us about them, and then the rain washed them away. Fortunately, though, Evelyn left us jelly beans.”

“Jelly beans,” Shaw repeated, again in that condescending tone.

“Yes, jelly beans,” Isabel said indignantly. “We followed them to the secret elevator.”

“Please tell me you at least found the secret elevator!” said Darius.

“We found an old service elevator,” said Shaw.

Isabel huffed. “So how do you explain why Evelyn was attacked?”

“She wasn’t,” said Shaw.

Darius shot a skeptical look at Isabel, who appeared just as lost.

“Ms. Channing has just been released from the hospital. She sustained no injuries.”

“What?” said Isabel. “No. She had a concussion.”

“She had no signs of a concussion,” Lawrence corrected. “The doctors found diazepam in her system, a strong sedative, but she had a prescription for that. Probably took one too many and passed out in the woods.”

“What about the blood on her head?” asked Isabel.

“Ah, yes, that was interesting,” said Lawrence. “The doctors did find blood, but they determined it was pig’s blood.”

“Pig’s blood?” Darius repeated in disgust. “Why would she have pig’s blood on her head?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” said Shaw. “When we interviewed her, she said something about attending a murder mystery party. Perhaps she was just playing along with your little…” He shot both of them a condescending look. “Skit.”

“Skit?” Isabel and Darius both shouted again in unison.

“She’s clearly just confused,” said Darius.

“I don’t think she’s the only one,” Lawrence muttered to his partner.

Darius’s hands squeezed the sheet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Wait, it actually makes perfect sense,” said Isabel, brow furrowed in concentration. “The writer never wanted to hurt Evelyn. But she was still getting too close when she found the tracks.”

“So the writer injected her with a sedative!” Darius caught on, his eyes lighting up. “Something she was already taking so it wouldn’t look suspicious.”

“Then, the writer used the fake blood to make it look like Evelyn was attacked,” said Isabel.

“Which also helped build the case against Bennett. Win-win.” Darius glanced at the detectives, expecting to be praised for his powers of deduction, but they looked like they were watching a play performed in Swedish.

“Wait a minute.” Isabel’s voice was distant, lost in thought. “What about Marjorie?”

“Do you think Marjorie’s death was—” Darius cut himself off as something tickled the edges of his subconscious. A face. A figure. In the room with him.

“Why not?” asked Isabel, completing the thought. “McCloud was the only one the writer wanted dead.”

A shiver passed through him. “It was Alastair who checked her pulse on the stairs. He volunteered. He had to so no one else could—”

Isabel gasped and turned toward the detectives. “Did you ever find the second body?”

The men exchanged another inscrutable glance. “Ah, right, the housekeeper,” said Shaw.

“She has a name!” Isabel snapped. “It’s Marjorie Ivanov.”

“Well, if it is, there’s no record of her working for Pen Ultimate Writers.” Shaw’s words landed like a brick on the hospital room floor.

“Okay,” said Isabel in a shaky voice, “so what name is there a record of?”

Lawrence took a deep breath. “None.”

“What?” Isabel frowned. “That’s impossible. There have to be housekeepers on staff.”

“There were,” said Shaw. “Five of them, according to our contact at Pen Ultimate Writers. But they never made it up the mountain.”

“Don’t you get it? The killer owns Pen Ultimate Writers!” Darius cried. “You’re being manipulated! Just as we were.”

Shaw sighed, clearly growing fatigued. “Look, our forensics team has been at that monastery for two days. They’ve torn the place apart. But they haven’t found any sign of any murder.”

“They covered it all up,” Darius murmured under his breath before turning to Isabel. “Remember what Alastair said in the foyer? He said they were cleaning up after themselves. That’s what he meant. They were covering their tracks, wiping away the evidence. Damn it. He told us this would happen. He said the police wouldn’t believe us.”

“Are you referring to Alastair Sinclair?” Lawrence asked.

“Yes,” said Darius. “He was working with the killer. Whatever he’s told you, he’s lying.”

Lawrence shifted uncomfortably. “He hasn’t told us anything because we haven’t questioned him.”

“Why not?” Darius demanded.

“Because he checked in to a spa in Palm Springs five days ago.”

“WHAT?” Darius cried. “That can’t be.”

“He wasn’t on the guest list,” said Lawrence. “In fact, we have a record of him being disinvited.”

“It’s a cover-up,” Darius insisted. “Any good mystery writer knows how to set up a fake alibi. Alastair Sinclair was there.”

“The only prints that came back from forensics belonged to the guests and the facilitator.”

“What about his car?” Isabel practically shouted. The same desperation coursing through Darius was spilling out of her now. “His Jaguar was in the driveway. He couldn’t have driven it right past the police.”

“We only found one car,” said Shaw. “A blue sedan. In the parking lot.”

“Yes!” said Isabel, pointing at him. “That was Marjorie’s car!”

Shaw checked his notes. “No, it was a rental, registered to Ian McCloud. We even found his cellphone in it. I assume that’s the car he arrived in.”

“No!” Darius cried, his heart monitor spiking. “He arrived on a motorcycle.”

“We didn’t find a motorcycle.”

“Because I drove it off a cliff!”

“Of course you did.”

Darius roared in frustration. “Can’t you see what’s happening here? The writer is fooling you. She must have found another way down the mountain.”

“The old logging road!” Isabel exclaimed. “From Evelyn’s map. It was probably open the whole time.” She turned to the detectives. “Did you look into that?”

The expression on Shaw’s face implied that they did not.

“What about the cameras?” Darius pressed. “You have to have found the CCTV cameras on the road. They would prove that Alastair was there. And Marjorie.”

“We did find CCTV cameras,” said Lawrence. “But they were disabled. Probably installed at some point but never used.”

Darius gritted his teeth. “She planned all of this. She writes mystery novels. Of course she knows how police investigations work and how to stay ahead of you. And now she’s going to get away with murder.” Darius was breathless by the time he finished, but that had to get their attention.

“Let me offer another explanation.” Shaw flashed him a patronizing smile. “Here’s what I think happened. I think a bunch of mystery writers attended a writing conference, found a dead body in a pool, and let their creative inclinations get the better of them.”

Isabel’s mouth fell open. “You think we made this all up?”

“Can you blame us?” Lawrence replied. “You make things up for a living.”

“Yes, but—”

“And you’re not exactly the most reliable group,” Shaw added.

“Who are you calling unreliable?” Isabel shrieked.

“All of you!” cried Shaw.

Darius tried to argue but the detective cut him off. “All five of you have collectively invented an agent, a writer, and a housekeeper who, according to our search efforts, were never there.”

Darius’s vision was turning red. His fingertips were going numb from clutching the sheets of the hospital bed. “We are not crazy.”

“No, not crazy,” Lawrence allowed. “Just…”

“Writers,” Shaw finished, doing little to hide his amusement.

“In other words,” Lawrence added, “if anyone was writing this story, it was the five of you.”

Is it true? Darius wondered. Did they make it all up, collectively feeding off each other’s paranoia and suspicious backstories?

“What about the flash drives?” Isabel challenged, clearly not ready to admit defeat. “Who was shuffling those all over the place? Planting clues for us to find? We were not the only ones there. Someone was fucking with us.”

“Actually, I think you were fucking with each other,” said Lawrence. “Once you all jumped to the conclusion of murder, you were so terrified of becoming suspects, you started to investigate each other, looking for clues, scapegoats, motives. Instead you found secrets. Everyone’s got them if you look hard enough. And in your desperation to protect your own, you exposed each other’s.”

Darius’s gaze cut to Isabel but she was already there, ready to lock in to his eyes, to come to the exact same conclusion at the same time.

“Just like the writer wanted,” Isabel whispered.

“To reveal dark truths,” said Darius.

“And wash away the sins of the past,” said Isabel.

“It was all part of the plan,” said Darius.

“Or,” said Shaw, looking unimpressed, “it was just a coincidence.”

“There are no coincidences in mystery novels,” Isabel said, flashing Darius a knowing look.

Shaw sighed. “Good thing this isn’t a mystery novel, then.”

“So, you’re saying there were no murders? At all?” asked Darius.

Lawrence took in his tortured expression and laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“And you’re absolutely positive?” asked Isabel.

“Yes,” said Shaw. “We’ve already released the body to the victim’s wife, Megan Shapiro.”

Darius looked up. “What did you say?”

“Megan Shapiro. She just left the station. She requested the body be cremated.”

A knowing smile crept over Darius’s lips. “I bet she did.”

“What about everyone else?” Isabel asked.

Shaw pocketed his notebook with an air of finality. “Since there are currently no criminal charges to press, everyone has been released. Ms. Palmer has issued a statement to the press about her sister. Mr. Hartley’s fate is in the hands of Ms. Channing, who will have to decide if she wants to press charges for the stolen manuscript. And Ms. Prescott will likely face a defamation suit from Jasmine Palmer’s family in civil court.”

“But what will happen to them?” Isabel asked.

Shaw snorted at the question. “I don’t know. This is real life, Ms. Torres. I can’t predict the ending.” He nodded to Darius before heading to the door. “I hope you feel better, Mr. Walker.”

The door closed behind the two detectives, leaving Darius and Isabel alone with the bomb that had just been dropped between them.

“So,” Isabel said with a playful raise of her brows, “not a murder mystery after all.”

“I know.” Darius’s shoulders fell. “What a shitty ending.”

Epilogue

It all concludes with two little words.

The End

I type the final letter with a flourish and save the document. Then I open my email and compose a new message to Alastair. He’ll be waiting desperately by his computer, chewing off his fingernails and drinking himself into a frenzy.

The sun on the beach is getting stronger, glaring off my laptop screen, making it harder to see. But I’m able to attach the manuscript and type a simple subject line: “It’s done.”

It took me a few months to finish up the last few chapters. I didn’t know exactly what happened after I left the monastery, but I was able to piece it together using my imagination and my extensive knowledge of police investigations.

I press send and lean back in my lounge chair, letting the sun warm my face and the ocean breeze cool my bare feet.

It really is done.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of freedom.

No one will find me here. This beach is remote, surrounded by vast, lush jungle, dense enough to hide a body. Or its killer.

Except I’m not hiding anymore. I’m sitting right out here in the open, with the white sand between my toes and the turquoise water sparkling just beyond my feet. It feels magnificent.

I spent far too much of my life hiding in cramped offices and dark attic rooms, hunched over my laptop, concealed away from the world like a dirty secret. I was a dirty secret. I was the secret.

At first, what Robert and I did felt like a joint effort. We were in it together. It was exciting and adventurous, like we were Mr. and Mrs. Smith, hiding our true identities from the world. Although there was only one identity to hide.

Ian McCloud never really existed. At least not at first. He was a construct, a necessary invention. Thirty years ago, after the one-hundredth agent rejected my first manuscript—a crime thriller starring a grizzled detective named Marlow Griggs, based on my days working as a receptionist at the local police department—a theory began to form in my mind. What if they weren’t rejecting the manuscript? What if they were rejecting the name on the manuscript?

So I did a little experiment. I took my father’s middle name, combined it with a last name I pulled off a magazine masthead, slapped it on the book, and sent it out to another round of prospective agents.

My theory was correct. Everyone wanted to represent Ian McCloud. And then everyone wanted to publish him. It wasn’t a problem until the first book became a bestseller and then everyone wanted to meet him.

Robert thought it would be fun, like acting in a play. We told ourselves it would just be this one time, this one book signing. I should have known. Back then, Robert could charm anyone. The audience in the bookstore fell in love with him and one signing turned into two, turned into nationwide book tours. I stopped coming to the events after a while. Someone had to keep writing the books, after all. The deadlines on the drafts were piling up faster than the dead bodies in them. But somehow it worked. We were a team, splitting the duties of a successful author. (Honestly, I don’t know how most authors do it all on their own.)

Ian McCloud was both of us and neither of us.

Then, somehow, I lost him.

Not just Ian McCloud, but Robert, too. He slipped further and further away. With each passing year and each book release, he became less like the man I married and more like the man I invented. He didn’t just become Ian McCloud, he stole him. He hijacked him. He even changed his legal name—the final theft. With every public event, every swooning reader, every charmed member of the press, I felt my power and my choices slipping away.

Of course, I thought about quitting a thousand times. Coming clean, giving it all up, exposing the truth, but I knew that bomb wouldn’t just land on his life. It would land on mine. On the lives of all the hardworking people at our publishing house. And it would land on the life of Alastair Sinclair, who had been loyal to us for years.

So, I kept writing, retreating further into my cave, into my darkening mind, into the burden that I had brought upon myself. When Robert’s drinking got worse, I told myself it came with the territory. When the signs of other women started to appear, I convinced myself I didn’t care. I’d already lost him a long time ago. He was my husband in name only. Even as the girls got younger and started dressing up as murder victims from my own imagination, I told myself it didn’t matter because I was doing what I loved. Most writers would kill to have a career like mine. Who cared if it wasn’t mine on the surface; it was mine in my heart. Marlow Griggs was born from my own soul. He was my creation, my first character, my first creative love. There’s nothing like your first.

Then came Jasmine Palmer, the accusation, and the canceled novel. My canceled novel. My best work yet, and poof! It was gone, just like that. Stolen by the same man who’d stolen everything from me.

But now I wasn’t the only one who had to pay for our deceit.

Jasmine Palmer had paid with her life.

When she disappeared from the public eye, I got suspicious. I contacted a friend at the Ann Arbor police department who sent back the crime scene photos that cracked open my cold, blackened heart. Her death was ruled a suicide but I always knew it was a form of murder. And Robert was responsible.

I found the hotel security footage on his laptop. The idiot didn’t even know his computer had saved a copy.

Jasmine Palmer was the first seed. The why that started it all. Her death was a constant reminder of our sins. That’s why I had the police photographs pinned up in my office the night Isabel found the cottage. To remind me of why I was doing this. Of my own culpability.

Jasmine’s death was as much my fault as it was his.

I had created that monster and let it loose in the world.

By then, it was too late to come clean. Monsters can’t just be exposed. They have to be slain. So I did it the only way I knew how.

I wrote a murder.

“Here’s your drink, Ms. Shapiro.” The beach waiter hands me a colorful frozen concoction that tastes just as delicious as it looks. I should know, it’s my fifth one. Don’t judge. I’m celebrating. I told you I’d get away with it.

As predicted, the medical examiner was unable to differentiate between exposure to hydrogen sulfide from a hot springs pool and ingestion of hydrogen sulfide through capsules disguised as medication. It was easy enough to swap out the pills that Bennett put on the nightstand while Robert was passed out drunk. The fool never knew the difference. The hard part was hauling his dead body into the housekeeping cart and wheeling it down to the hot springs in the dark. But I had two years to get in shape. The adrenaline helped too.

I thought I was screwed when Robert bonked his head on the sink two days before the conference. Until I realized the head wound actually worked in my favor, creating a nice misdirect for the cause of death. I knew Darius would make the connection to the plot of VANISHING POINT and wonder if it was intentional.

But it was just a happy accident. Sometimes writers get lucky like that.

The sand here is as white as snow. The sun never stops shining. The dazzling horizon seems a million miles away. And yes, my tan is coming along nicely, thanks for asking. I sip my drink, which cools me from the inside, and reopen my laptop. It’s time to check on my beloved characters.

You don’t think I’ve forgotten about them, do you? After spending all that time and effort plotting their story?

One of the saddest parts about being an author is having to say goodbye to your characters after a book is done. They never really leave you, of course, but they do fade over time, until they feel less like characters and more like bullet points of your own backstory. Every once in a while, they might pop into your thoughts and you might wonder what they’re doing, if they’re happy, if they got what they deserved.

But I don’t have to wonder. This beach has Wi-Fi.

I open my browser and click on the list of news alerts I set up two months ago.

I’m happy to see that the bidding war for SHALLOW GRAVES by Evelyn Channing is now over three million dollars. It seems the lawsuit against Bennett has brought extra attention to the manuscript, inflating the price. I’d like to say I planned it that way, but I don’t want to brag. Everyone does love a scandal.

Case in point, I’m also not surprised to see the announcement of another big sale. DEAD GIRLS DON’T LIE, a mystery thriller co-written by Jade and Jasmine Palmer, has sold in a record-breaking deal. After the hotel security footage was released, publishers scrambled to buy the book that had led to such a tragedy. The real tragedy is that there had to be a tragedy at all in order for Jasmine Palmer’s words to be so highly valued.

As expected, the backlash against Simone Prescott has been significant. She’s disappeared from the public eye. No one has heard from her in weeks. About a month ago, she tried to sell a tell-all book called WHY I DID IT, but no agent or publisher would touch it.

Bennett’s new book, on the other hand, is getting all the buzz. It’s a tell-all called WHY I DID IT, and it’s rumored to sell for a shit-ton of money. I don’t know if he’ll add a subtitle, but might I suggest “Proof That Men Always Come Out on Top”?

Oh well, I did my best. Some endings really are out of our control.

Next, I click over to USA TODAY’s website and scan the list of bestselling books, smiling when I see Isabel’s name next to the final installment in the Blood of Fire trilogy. She completed the last book a few days after the case was closed, locking herself away in her writer’s cave until the draft was done. Thanks to the speed of self-publishing, she was able to release FORGED IN STEEL two months later. I caught the live stream of her book launch party online. Guess who was first in line for a signed copy? Looks like Darius has a new author to fanboy.

Do I feel bad for making Isabel believe that Marjorie was dead? Or that she was ever anything more than a fictional character born from my imagination? Sometimes. When night falls over the island and the birds fill the air with their farewell song, I can still hear the sound of her scream and it breaks my heart.

Isabel was never my daughter, but I felt responsible for her. Maybe because I was never able to have children of my own—my characters were my children. But mostly because Isabel was another consequence of our secret. I didn’t even know she existed until six months ago, when she showed up on our security cameras. I was in my office that night, plotting, preparing, hiding behind the locked door when she peered through the window of the cottage. Her tenacity intrigued me. So I tracked her down. Started digging. It didn’t take long to put the pieces together.

She was the final addition to the story. The plot twist I had to squeeze in at the last minute. (There’s always one.) I also put away some money for her. Twenty percent of Ian McCloud’s next big payouts. It wasn’t difficult to set up the offshore account in Ian’s name. I’d held power of attorney for years. He could never be bothered with anything as mundane as contracts and finances. I knew the money wouldn’t erase the twenty-two years Isabel spent without her real father, without answers, but it was something.

The “stolen” money also added some extra intrigue to the story. Can’t complain about that. Last I heard, Isabel donated it all to a women’s shelter in the city. I couldn’t have written a better ending myself.

I save Darius for last, relishing the motherly pride that fills me when his face appears on my YouTube feed. His confession last month is still his most-viewed video. In it, he admitted he was Jenna Blake and that he only used a pen name because he was ashamed he’d never written a novel of his own. We’re not so different, Darius and I. We both hid behind fabricated identities that got away from us.

He’s recently started another video series, documenting his progress on a new manuscript. It’s a mystery novel, but he’s decided to write it without an outline, embracing himself as a true “pantser.”

“Maybe I planned too much and it held me back,” he explained in the first episode. “Maybe I need to discover the story as I go and let it unfold on its own.”

It’s going well. He’s already past the Halfway Twist—where he used to give up. Of course, it could still fall apart. But if it does, I’m sure he’ll figure out how to fix it. Because that’s what writing a novel is. It’s not about what goes right. It’s about what goes wrong. And how you move forward from there.

Needless to say, this book didn’t turn out entirely the way I’d planned it either. I had to make plenty of changes along the way, but in the end, I accomplished what I set out to accomplish. I revealed the dark truths, just as I promised Darius I would do. I brought down the bad guys. I exonerated the good guys. And maybe one day, I might even be able to exonerate myself.

All in all, I’m happy with the way the story turned out. I’ll have to publish it under a pen name, of course, but that’s okay. I’m used to not taking credit for my own work.

The work is credit enough.

The effort is always the real reward, anyway. And god knows how much I toiled over this book. But I enjoyed every second of it. I hope you enjoyed it, too. I think it’s a pretty good book. Maybe one day, it’ll even make a good movie.

If Hollywood doesn’t fuck it up.

Acknowledgments

Plotting a murder is no small feat, as I discovered firsthand in the writing of this one. Fortunately, I had a team of skilled accomplices.

Thank you to my wonderful agent, Jim McCarthy, who is mercifully nothing like the agent in this book but who’s been my faithful partner in crime for more than a decade now.

Thank you to Alicia Clancy, my fabulous editor, who cleaned up the crime scenes; Jean Slaughter, her co-conspirator; and the killer team at Bantam Dell and Penguin Random House for helping me get my story straight.

Joanne Rendell, you’re the only other person who knows where the bodies are buried (and by bodies, I mean the piles of axed scenes and discarded plot threads). Thank you for reading countless drafts, brainstorming all the backstories, and making me laugh even through the spirals of despair.

As always, thank you to my parents for being my safe house and to Charlie for being my rock, my sounding board, and my getaway car when things got dicey.

This story was a passion project from the start. I wanted to work on something that combined my two loves—writing and writing about writing. I dedicated the book to writers because only we know what it’s like to wrestle with misbehaving characters, fall into plot holes, and kill our dearest darlings, but I especially want to thank the members of my Writing Mastery Academy for constantly inspiring me with your dedication to the craft. Writing is not easy, as I hope this story proves. It takes a healthy dose of courage, persistence, and obsession to show up at the keyboard every day, despite all the forces (and characters!) seemingly working against you. I admire each and every one of you.

And finally, I want to thank you, dear reader. Yes, you, the one who’s been turning these pages and reading these words all the way to these final few sentences. I meant it when I said I wrote this murder for you. Every red herring, every misdirection, every carefully placed clue, I planted with you in mind. You have always been and will always be my purest motive.

About the Author

Jessica Brody is the author of the number-one-bestselling novel-writing guides Save the Cat! Writes a Novel and Save the Cat! Writes a Young Adult Novel as well as more than twenty novels for teens, tweens, and adults including The Geography of Lost Things, The Chaos of Standing Still, Amelia Gray Is Almost Okay, A Week of Mondays, 52 Reasons to Hate My Father, the Unremembered trilogy, and the System Divine trilogy, which is a sci-fi reimagining of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, co-written with Joanne Rendell. Brody’s books have been translated into and published in over twenty languages and several have been optioned for film and television. She’s the founder of the Writing Mastery Academy and lives with her husband and dogs near Portland, Oregon.

jessicabrody.com

Instagram: @JessicaBrody

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